


French Lessons

by lumbeam



Series: The Journey Itself Is Home [5]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, First Love, Frottage, Gossip, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Secrets, Sex Education, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22429198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumbeam/pseuds/lumbeam
Summary: Arthur goes into the city to help Mary. Afterwards, things get complicated and....French.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: The Journey Itself Is Home [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1480901
Comments: 36
Kudos: 160





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry about the title/description. I know it's corny. Just bear with me (or don't, that's fine as well)
> 
> This is partially based on a text post by tumblr user myboah that read:
> 
> "hc: I feel like Charles Châtenay gave Arthur a lot of completely unsolicited yet excellent French sex advice and he doesn't know what do do with it."
> 
> and fam.......here we are.

“Is it too late for us, Arthur?” Mary asked, taking her hand in his. Arthur couldn’t help but squeeze her soft hand. She was so _delicate._ He kept his eyes cast downwards, for fear of getting trapped in her gaze. Him just being here, after swearing that he wouldn’t help her again, was enough for him. When he read the letter, written in her perfect script, he saw through the niceties on the page. Sure enough, when he showed up at the hotel she was staying at, she needed help. He obliged, unfortunately having to see her wretched father again, who was up to his old tricks. He sold her mother’s broach, and as much as Arthur wanted to beat her father’s face in, he respected Mary’s wishes in getting the jewelry back from the man he sold it to.

They went to a show after that, just the two of them. “As _friends_ ,” Mary insisted, and Arthur wasn’t offended by her saying that. Certainly, he still cared for her deeply, but it wasn’t _like that_ . Too many things had happened between them, and _to_ them. All he could offer was friendship.

Or so he thought, and _then_ she took his hand. 

“Mary,” Arthur muttered, shaking his head. 

The railcar bell dinged, arriving right in front of the station. “Run away with me,” she said, eyes lit up. He made the mistake of looking in her eyes in that moment. Just for a flash, he saw the woman he was in love with so many years ago. His heart ached, _lurched_ at the image.

But she wasn’t the same young woman. And Arthur, foolish as he still felt, wasn’t the same young man.

His grip on her hand loosened. “I…can’t do it.” 

“Why not? We could just buy a train ticket and we can leave this all behind.” She tightened her grip, almost pleading in the action.

“You an’ I know nothin’ ain’t that simple anymore.”

“But it _could be,_ Arthur.” She looked back at the railcar. “We’d have each other.”

Arthur couldn’t help but laugh sardonically at the entire situation. Like two ships passing in the night…

She grew annoyed at the laughter, letting go of his hand. “You’re too tied up in your _gang_ to even know what an escape is when you see one.”

“Mary, it’s not that.” It _was_ that, but only partially. 

“Then what is it? What could possibly be stopping you?”

His heart was pounding in his chest. He at least owed her part of the real reason. “I—I met someone.”

She stepped back slightly. The railcar kept on with its route. “What?”

“I met someone.” He said, stronger in his conviction. “A few months ago, actually.”

“What’s her name?”

Not bothering to correct her for obvious reasons, he scoffed. “Does it even matter?”

She looked away. “No, I guess not.” She folded her arms. “Why did you come to me, then?”

For a second, Arthur didn’t know what to say. “I…I could tell you needed help. That’s really why ya wrote to me, ain’t it?”

Mary looked down at her perfectly polished shoes. “Yes.” She sighed slightly. “Do you love her?” She asked, eyes still cast downwards.

Arthur furrowed his brow in thought. “It’s still _real_ early to say it, but I think I do.” 

“Okay.” She looked at him. Her eyes looked glossy. “I’m happy for you.”

“Don’t look like it.”

“I am, I’m just—” She shook her head, her loose locks of hair swaying. “Oh _Arthur_.”

Arthur nodded, understanding all that went into that simple phrase. He’d certainly heard it enough to know what she meant. “I know.” 

She looked over his shoulder, checking the time. “Would you wait with me? Just until the next rail car comes.”

Arthur also checked the time. “Why, you goin’ on a trip alone?”

“No, nothin’ like that. Just back to my hotel.”

“Well, if that’s all, I could give you a ride back—”

Mary shook her head. “You don’t need to do that.”

Arthur laughed slightly. Now didn’t _that_ sentiment sound familiar. “But I could, if ya wanted me to.” 

“You’ve done enough for me already.”

“If ya say so."

“Could we take a seat?” She looked at the cast iron bench behind Arthur.

The two sat on the bench in silence, watching the sun slowly disappear down past the train yard.

“I did love you, you know.” Mary said in a soft tone. 

“I know you did.” Arthur sighed. “An’ I loved you.” The silence hung between them. “So what are you goin’ to do now?”  
  
“What do you mean?”

Arthur shrugged. “With Jamie, with your _father_ \--” He scrunched up his face at the mere thought of him. 

Mary was silent for a while. “Well, with Jamie, I’ll make sure he will be covered. He won’t be joining no Chelonians again, I hope. With daddy…” She trailed off. “I dunno.”

“You could put him in a home.” Arthur offered, and even with that suggestion he felt too generous. 

“Arthur!” Mary scolded. “I know you an’ him are like oil and water, but he’s a good man underneath it all.”

“If he’s a good man, then I’m a goddamn saint.” 

Mary exhaled, annoyed. She folded her arms, looking away from him. She kept turning back on the thought of making her father someone else’s problem. She wouldn’t dare speak of it.

“Look, Mary, I’m sorry.” A pause. “I mean, not about your father, but about us.” He sighed, brows knit together. “We wouldn’t have worked out, and you know that.” He never thought he’d be capable of admitting it outloud, let alone to _her._

Mary looked back over at Arthur. “I know.” Her voice wavered slightly.

The rail car dinged as it pulled up to the station.

“I guess this is it.” Mary said, standing. 

“Guess so." 

“Unless I need your help intimidating someone again.” She smiled. A feeble attempt to lighten the mood.

“I can do that any time.” He held out his hand to her for stability, but she didn’t take it.

She took a step onto the car. “Goodbye, Arthur.”

“Bye, Mary.”

She turned and got a seat by the window. He waved at her as the car dinged and left its stop. Mary gave a slight wave back.

He waited until the car was out of sight until he turned and went inside the ticket station.

“Good evening, sir.” The ticket taker greeted. “Where are you traveling to?”

“Ain’t askin’ for a ticket. Could ya point me to the nearest bar?”

\--

“All I’m saying is that she’s trouble.” Tilly said, finishing her cross stitch.

“Did you even _see_ how she wrote his name on the envelope? Like she was damn the queen of England or something!” Karen sipped her coffee. “She only wants Arthur for _one_ thing.”

“I don’t think Arthur’s that kind of man!” Mary-Beth gasped. 

Rolling her eyes, Karen said, “Not _that_. I mean she only wants him around when she needs a tough guy.”

“Who would she even need to shove around?” Tilly scoffed.

“Probably her butler or somethin’.”

Charles was trying not to eavesdrop. Sometimes, with the camp, it was impossible not to hear. He was carrying a bale of hay out to the horses when he started to hear them talk.

Arthur told him last night that Mary sent him a letter. Showing transparency, he passed it over to him.

It was just the two of them in the gazebo at Shady Belle. After the ordeal in Rhodes, with Sean losing an eye (and most of his cheekbone, a nasty situation), the gang quickly packed their things and scrambled into the deeper south. It turned out Arthur and Lenny had cleared out an old Confederate household weeks ago. For now, it was home.

Charles folded the letter up, passing it back to Arthur. “Are you going to help her?” 

Arthur pocketed the letter, then sighed. “I dunno.” He scratched at his scraggly facial hair. He’ll need a shave soon. “If it were months ago, I wouldn’t give it a second thought. She just…always had me bendin’ hand over foot.”

“What changed?”

He huffed out a laugh. “I’m sure you’re well aware of what changed.” 

“But she certainly still has a hold on you. Otherwise you’d say hell with it and pay her no mind.”

“I know, and I _hate_ that.” Arthur looked out at the water. “I’m sorry.”

“No reason to be sorry. It just shows you have some sense of empathy.”

“One way of lookin’ at it.”

“Do you not agree?”

“Hm?”

“That you still care for her?”

He was quiet for a long time.

“I… _do_.” He said in a measured tone. “But not—not in the same way I used to. I don’t love her or nothin’, not anymore.”

“You’ve made that clear.”

Arthur finally turned towards Charles. “Really? I’m over here grousing like some kinda schoolboy over her, and it sure feels like I ain’t convincing you.”

“Arthur.” Charles said sternly. “You don’t have to convince me.” He put a hand on his knee and squeezed. “And maybe if you do help her, it could provide closure.”

Arthur nodded, taking in the idea. “Gonna need to think about this.”

“Sleep on it. It’s not like she needs you right now. Let’s just relax.”

Arthur sat back a little more on the gazebo bench. He rested his head on his shoulder.

“I’m sure you heard Dutch talkin’ ‘bout it, but Colm escaped the St. Denis prison.”

Charles nodded. In the early morning he saw Miss Grimshaw rush over to Dutch and Hosea, newspaper in hand. “I did. You feeling okay?”

Arthur shrugged, his head still on Charles’ shoulder. “I guess.”

“You ‘guess.’” Charles restated.

“I dunno, I mean, he’ll get what he has comin’ to him, one day or another.” It had been about a month since their hunting trip. The nightmares lessened as well as the pain. Every once in a while, there was a twinge of pain that shot down his arm, and the scarring would always look warped and mangled, but it was manageable. He wasn’t going to use it as a crutch as Uncle did with his supposed lumbago. “I still wouldn’t mind seein’ him swing, but I ain’t gonna think about it now.”

“Good.” Charles laid his head on top of Arthur’s. They listened to the croaks of bullfrogs and the crickets chirping. He felt Arthur’s hand squeeze his inner thigh.

“S’been a while since we’ve--” Arthur did that hand maneuver that always made Charles roll his eyes.

“Wonder why we haven’t.” Charles said, both of them knowing why. With the tight plans Dutch had as well as being run out of Rhodes, there was no time for intimacy or even a peaceful night like tonight.

“Maybe we could schedule a night or somethin’ where we sneak away for a while?”

Charles sighed softly at the thought. “I’d like that. Just let me know.”

“Prolly help out Mary before we could do that.” He put his hand over the edge of the envelope.

“Figured as much.”

Arthur moved his head, careful to not have his stubble tickle Charles’ neck. “Don’t wanna think ‘bout that right now.”

“Then don’t.” He put his hand over Arthur’s. He moved away from the letter.

\--

As Charles expected, he woke up to find a note beside his bedroll.

_Charles,_

_Going into the city. Be back later today._

_\--Arthur_

He hid the note before Bill or, god forbid, _Micah_ saw it. He could already hear the epithets now. 

The ladies continued to talk about the situation. Gossip traveled fast around camp. He wondered where it started.

“Do you think that she’s going to ask him to take her back?” Mary-Beth asked, a little excited at the prospect. Despite all she heard about Mary, she was a romantic at heart. 

Tilly and Karen both responded with a “ _No_.”

“You really think that she’d change her mind now?” Tilly asked. 

“Well, then again, I did hear she’s a widow.” Karen thought. 

Mary-Beth clicked her tongue. “I just want him to be happy.”

“Listen, we all do. But we all know he won’t achieve happiness through Mary’s hoity-toity _cu—hey_ _Charles_!” Karen called out. Charles made the mistake of looking over at them as he walked to the horses. 

“Good morning, ladies.” He greeted, secretly hoping he could walk on by.

“Wait, come back!” Mary-Beth waved, beckoning him over. “We want to ask you some things!”

After debating a moment over whether to bring the bale of hay with him, he set it down and walked over.

Tilly patted the blanket. “Sit, stay for a while.” She unlatched the embroidery hoop and folded up the delicately sewn pattern. It looked like she was decorating a handkerchief. 

Charles awkwardly sat down just outside the ladies’ blanket. “What is it?”

The women looked at each other, then Karen said, “We’ve seen you and Arthur pal around, bein’ thick as thieves—” 

“We _are_ thieves--” Mary-Beth cut in, rolling her eyes.

“Whatever!” Karen shook her hand, shooing the comment away. “An’ I’m sure you’ve heard about Mary, a tale of _lost_ _love_ or however Arthur likes to frame it.”

Charles kept his face neutral, even though by now he could write a book on Mary. Maybe a short story, perhaps. “I heard some things.” 

“And I’m sure you’ve heard he’s gone to St. Denis to help her out.” 

“ _Again_.” Tilly interjected.

“Did he say anything to you about it?”

“Why would he?” He deflected. “Besides, you know he doesn’t say much.”

“Unless he’s drinking.” Karen said.

“So he didn’t say anything about getting back together with her?” Tilly asked.

Charles shook his head. “He only said he was thinking about helping her.”

The ladies sighed disappointedly, almost in unison.

“Why does he bother going to the well when there’s no water?”

“Maybe he feels guilty?” He offered.

“He damn well _shouldn’t_ feel guilty.” Karen snapped. “You know what she did to him? She broke his heart. Did you know he bought her a ring?”

“I think he mentioned it.” Charles thought for a moment, trying to set the timeline straight. “When were they together?” 

“Before any of us were in the gang.” Tilly said. “Miss Grimshaw was there for it, though.”

“An’ I think she was sleepin’ with Dutch at the time!” Karen wrinkled her nose. 

“She shared the details with us many times over. About Arthur and Mary, _not_ her an’ Dutch!”

Charles put a pin in the relationship between Susan and Dutch. Something to ask Arthur later. 

“It sounds like when they were together, it was _intense_ and _tumultuous_.” Mary-Beth said almost wistfully.

“What Ms. Bodice-Ripper is trying to say is that they were lovey-dovey and also _very bad_ for each other.” Karen rectified.

Tilly elaborated. “From what Miss Grimshaw told us, Mary would threaten to leave him unless he didn’t change. For a few weeks, he’d clean up his act, then go crawling back to his old ways, probably because of Dutch and Hosea getting to him. That continued on for a few _years_. Then they got engaged, when Arthur was on a streak of good behavior, then—” 

“Mary suddenly called off the engagement. She got married to someone else a few months later.”

“How old were they?” Charles asked.

“Around their early twenties?”

“Young and foolish, both of them.” He muttered.

“No less foolish now than they were years ago.”

“I suppose not.” He couldn’t help but think about how head over heels he was over her. It was strange to imagine a young and hopeful Arthur, let alone an Arthur _in love_. Charles’ thoughts were cut off by Susan hustling over to them.

“ _Ladies_ , get back to work! There’s plenty of cleaning to do in the house!” She ordered. “Mr. Smith, are they encouraging you to slack off?”

“Not at all.” Charles said, standing and brushing off the grass on his clothes. “I was just getting back to it.”

“Talk to you later, Charles!” Karen said as he walked off. 

He picked up the bale of hay, it feeling heavier than before, then walked back over to the surely hungry horses. Maybe he should have let on more than he knew, even that would have lead to more uncomfortable questions about how close he was to Arthur. At the very least he could have calmed them down on his motives for going to see her, because it certainly wasn’t to rekindle their relationship. If they _do_ talk to him later, he decided to confide in them. Not about _everything,_ but enough to quell the gossip of Arthur and Mary. Unless he gets back tonight as he wrote in the note. 

Whatever the case, for some reason Charles highly doubted he’d be back later today. Who knew how long it would take for him to tell Mary the truth…

—

Arthur exhaled a long drag, thumb scratching at the corner of his mouth. He re-read what he wrote.

_I saw Mary for maybe the last time today._

_I had to help her, yet again. She sent me a real nice letter. I also saw her father again, who was just as pathetic as when I first had the misfortune of meeting him. Bastard sold her mother’s brooch for gambling money. Or maybe it was drinking money. I can’t be sure. I got it back for her the “right” way, even though it cost me damn near an arm and a leg to get it back._

_She took me to a show after that was all taken care of. Saw some dancing girls, a singer, and a fire dancer. Some big city entertainment._

_I was about to say goodbye to her when she pleaded for me to run away with her. As if we were still kids._

_I told her about Charles. Well, not in specifics, but that I wasn’t available like that anymore._

_She seemed to take it kind of hard. We sat and talked until the railcar came._

_I honestly can’t even say why I’m so torn up about it. I know if I ran away with her I’d just be digging my own grave. Maybe it’s ‘cause it’s the end of us, even though we’ve been long over for years now._

_Love, relationships, belonging. All these concepts are sometimes too much for me to even grasp._

Arthur tapped his pencil on the page. He took one last drag and stubbed out his cigarette in the filled ashtray. Then, almost as a second nature, he started to draw Mary. He’d drawn her maybe dozens of times. Mary reading, Mary sewing, Mary resting, Mary wearing her engagement ring. All these stages of their relationship, drawn delicately on paper. Arthur left the drawings for her to find, such as under her bed, in her dresser, in her books. He wondered if she collected them or just simply threw them into the fire before her father could see them. 

He drew her at a three quarter view, eyes glossy. The look she gave him as she said “I’m happy for you.”

He sighed, taking a pull from his drink. He ordered two beers, just to start, then sat in the back corner of maybe the dingiest bar in St. Denis. Before he knew it, he was on his second bottle. He resumed drawing her locks of hair until he felt the feeling of being watched. He looked up from his journal and turned around. A small man with paint-covered clothes was standing behind him. “Can I help you?” Arthur asked gruffly.

The man seemed to pay no mind to his curtness. “You’re an artist?” He asked, his French accent so thick it took Arthur a second to figure out what he was saying.

“Uh,” Arthur said dumbly, “I wouldn’t say that.”

“What would you say, then?” He asked, making a sound like “ _zen_.” The man stepped over, taking a seat across from him. He set his drink on the table. “What are you?”

Arthur tilted his head at the man. How strange that someone would make themselves so familiar so quickly. Must be a French thing, he figured.

Arthur closed his journal. “M’ an outlaw, I guess.” After a beat, he was worried about the possible language barrier. “Y’know, robbin’ and killin’ people.”

“I know what you mean, but you’re more than that, no?” He gestured to the journal with his paint-caked fingers. “Can I see?”

“Well, I don’t—it’s really—” He stammered as the man took the book. “I don’t even know who you are!” 

“Pah, how rude of me! I’m used to these American manners, of which there are none!” He shook his head. “The name is Charles Châtenay.” Arthur focused on his journal, resting in the man’s hands.

“Arthur Morgan.” He reached out. “Can I have my book back?”

“One moment!” He flipped through the pages. “I can’t read your writing for shit.”

Arthur laughed. “Gee, thanks.”

“Your drawings, though.” He turned the pages more slowly. “They’re delicate.” Arthur couldn’t help but laugh. Nothing he’s ever done in his life has been considered “delicate.” “A little rough.” He slid the journal back over to him. “Self-taught, I presume?”

Arthur scoffed, hiding his journal in his satchel. “Yeah, how’d you guess?” He asked jokingly.

“Are you kidding me? Your country doesn’t know its ass from a hole in the ground! No one has any talent. Everything in museums and galleries is _shit_! Real talent isn’t found in schools or institutions, it’s found out here!”

“ _’My_ country,’” Arthur laughed. “Ain’t my country either, friend.”

“More yours than mine.” He finished his drink, grimacing. “You can’t even brew good beer! How can you drink this?!”

If it were anyone else, Arthur would have left the bar or knocked him out. But he couldn’t help but be amused by this vulgar Frenchman. “I sure don’t drink it for the taste.”

“You Americans,” he spat, “Anything that will get you _fucked_ up the quickest.”

No point in refuting that. “As if it’s different in France or wherever you’re from?”

Charles thought for a moment. “No, I guess not.” He stood from his seat. “Let’s drink something a little stronger. I’ll get the next round.”

“All right, fine by me.”

—

Charles eventually insisted on buying a bottle of an incredibly strong green drink, but the process of pouring it over a sugar cube was driving Arthur crazy. “Patience, _mon ami_.” Charles said, setting the bottle down. His accent got even more pronounced when he was drunk. “Ask me something while we wait.”

Arthur’s brain felt like it was sloshing around in his head. “Okay, uhh…why’d you come to America?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He smirked.

“…No?”

“The _women_ , obviously.”

Arthur laughed, expecting a grander statement. “S’that so?”

“ _Mon dieu_ , the things these women can do—” He ran his hands through his curly hair. “This one woman sucked me off so good I thought my soul would leave my body.”

“Jesus—” Arthur coughed, tears welling in his eyes. The things he said...

“Surely you know what I’m speaking of?”

“I guess, but not quite like that.”

“Agh, and the men here! So puritanical and so _dirty_. One minute they are moaning for you to fuck them, and the next minute you’re being tossed out in the alleyway.”

“The men ‘round here do that, huh?” He asked, heat rising from his collar. He could blame it on the drink.

Charles removed the absinthe spoons from the tops of the glass. He passed one of the glasses over to Arthur. He was silent for a moment, watching him take a sip.

It was _strong,_ stronger than anything he drank in all his years. Nigh undrinkable without the sugar, Arthur figured. Certainly something to be sipping rather than gulping down, unless he’d want to black out.

Charles left his drink alone for the time being. He pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a very fancy (presumably French) lighter. He took a drag. “What are you into, cowboy?”

“What do ya mean?”

“Do you, how you say—” He looked up at the smoke stained ceiling in thought. “Do you prefer to eat oysters or snails?”

Now he was even more confused. “Now why’n the hell are you getting poetic all of a sudden?”

He sighed in a frustrated tone. “Do you like cock or vagina?”

Arthur sputtered. “ _What_?”

“I said, ‘do you like—‘”

“I know what you said!” He hissed. He looked around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. They weren’t.

“You haven’t answered.” He blew out a puff of smoke. It mixed with the hazy air.

Arthur rubbed his temples. His brain couldn’t even work up a good lie. He sighed for a long time. “I guess, uh…. _both?_ ” He said like a question, in a small voice.

“You sound unsure.” Charles said, taking another drag.

“M’not _unsure_.” He took another sip of the strange green drink. “It’s just...new. How did—I mean, are you—?”

Charles waved his hand. “Labels, who needs them! I fuck who I fuck. All that matters is whose attention I have now.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “I hope you’re not insinuating—”

“ _Relax_. You're not my type.” He stubbed out his cigarette as Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. “You said all this, your _attraction,_ was new?”

Arthur nodded.

“So you haven’t, ehh—” he made a crude gesture with his hands.

Laughing, he shook his head. “Not even _close_.”

Now it was Charles’ turn to take a drink. “Would you want pointers?”

Arthur, loosened up enough with the absinthe, dug out his journal. “If you’re offerin’.”

\--

Day slipped into night. The camp, despite the hardships, was in good spirits. Charles got some stew, then went over to eat by the fire. Javier was softly strumming his guitar, Karen was helping Sean eat his food, Tilly was swaying softly, watching Javier play. Mary-Beth came over and sat down as well, eating her stew. 

Karen noticed Charles sit down. “Arthur ain’t back yet?”

Charles shook his head. “I’m not surprised if he’s taking this long.”

“Maybe he and Mary ran off together.” Mary-Beth said, slightly lost in thought.  
  
“He wouldn’t do that.” Tilly reassured.  
  
“I dunno,” Javier spoke up, “Love makes you do crazy things.” He strummed his guitar one more time. “Especially a first love.”

“I’m guessing there’s a story to this?” Karen asked, blowing on a spoonful of stew for Sean.

Javier laughed. “Back in Nuevo Paraiso, there was this girl named Theresa in my village. I followed her around everywhere she went, almost like a little dog. Other kids would go ‘ _guau guau’_ when they saw me following her.” He shook his head, tucking the guitar pick in-between the strings. “One day, she told me that she was moving up to California, to stay with her tia . She gave me the address. I wrote a letter to her every day for a _month_.”

“Did you ever get a letter back?”

Laughing, he nodded. “I did, from some guy who just wrote that I had the wrong address.”

Uncomfortable laughter bubbled around the campfire. “Did she give you the wrong address?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “We were only eleven. Maybe she just mixed up the letters or numbers.” He thought for a moment, gazing into the fire. “If I knew now what I knew then, maybe we’d be together.”

Sean laughed. “Right, ‘cause you’re such _lady_ _killer_ now.” 

“Hey, a guy can dream!” He started to strum again, putting the pick in his mouth. “Who was your first love, then?” He directed his question toward Sean.

“Dunno if I had a first love.” Sean took another bite of stew with Karen’s help. “I think I said ‘I love you’ to the first girl I poked, does that count?” Everyone groaned.  
  
“Such a romantic.” Tilly rolled her eyes.

“If you want a real love story, me ma an’ me da--” Sean started before the camp groaned even louder.  
  
“Not _this_ again--” Javier grumbled. He met eyes with Tilly, trying to get their focus off of Sean’s neverending stories. “What about you, Tilly?”

Tilly sighed wistfully. “Rodney Carter. He was my neighbor, a couple years older than me. I had a hard time pronouncing his name. I kept sayin’ it as _Robnee._ As soon as I was old enough to learn my letters, I remembered how to spell his name. I wrote it everywhere, even into an old birch tree.” She rested her chin in her hands, clearly fond of the memory. “He caught me doing it! I hadn’t even spelled all of it. I just had R-O-D-N-E. I ran back to my house.” She covered her face with her hands. “I avoided him like the _plague_ after that.”

Javier started plucking the guitar strings. “Rodney, Rodney, _Robneee_!” He sang.

“Stop that!” Tilly laughed.

Mary-Beth started, seeing Tilly’s embarrassment. “There was this boy in my school that I was in _love_ with. I wrote pages on pages of stories about him and I in my notebook.”

“Lemme guess, you were a princess and he was a brave knight?” Karen asked.

Mary-Beth scoffed. “ _No_ , I was the _queen_ and he was the _king._ Anyway, I burned all of the pages after he called my hairstyle stupid.”

“Y’all are too nice with your love stories!” Karen stirred her bowl of stew. “When I was little, maybe ‘round the same age as Jack, I would pick on all the boys I had crushes on. I would beat them in tag, take their pocket change, steal their hats--”

“Ain’t that much different than now, are ya?” Sean laughed.  
  
“Do you want me to feed ya or not?” Karen asked, yanking the bowl away. Sean said a quiet apology.

Tilly looked over at Charles, who was holding onto his bowl of stew. “What about you, Charles? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“No different than usual.” Javier said lightly, playing a riff on his guitar like a button to his joke.

“Have you ever been in love?” She asked him, paying no mind to Javier.

Charles stirred his spoon in the empty bowl, giving himself something to do. “I don’t think so.” People around the campfire seemed surprised.

“Well, surely you’ve had crushes on people?”

Charles thought of the boy at the reservation. Even looking back on the memory, how he looked at him before they kissed, his heart skipped a beat. “I did. I had my first kiss with someone I grew up with. She was--” He stopped, trying not to get caught up on the pronoun change. “--curious about what it was like to kiss someone.”

“Aw!” Tilly gushed. “You didn’t become her boyfriend or anything?”

Charles smiled. “No, we kept it a secret.”

“Ah, her dad woulda killed ya?” Sean asked.

“Something like that.” Charles answered. He set down his bowl next to him. “I’ve loved a lot of people. And out of that love, I’ve done some things I’m not proud of. I’ve killed for the people I’ve loved. But being _in_ love?” Charles shook his head. “Never been.” He thought about Arthur. Things were _easy_ with him. Maybe, in due time, his feelings could change. He couldn’t help but smile slightly at the thought of him.

“Well I hope that changes for you soon. Everyone deserves to fall in love.” Mary-Beth got up to put her dishes in the wash basin. 

Javier saw John walk past the campfire. “Hey Marston! You ever do any crazy things for love?”

John scoffed. “Yeah, I had a kid.” He ducked into the house. 

“A many splendored thing,” Tilly muttered.

Strumming away on the guitar, Javier started to mutter a formless tune. “Love, love, _loooove_ . Amor, amor, _amoooor_!” He sang. 

“Are there even any campfire songs ‘bout love?” Karen wondered out loud. 

“Nah, too unrealistic. We just have a billion songs about the gash--”

“Sean!” Tilly scolded.

Charles got up and placed his dishes into the tub of dirty dishes. 

“Arthur wouldn’t leave us, right?” Mary-Beth asked, still concerned.  
  
Charles sighed. “Mary-Beth, I’m sure that big fool is just spending a night in the city.” He looked around. “I read her letter,” he said quietly. “Arthur showed it to me.”

Mary-Beth seemed shocked. “He’s always so secretive with them.”

“The letter was about her father, mostly.” Charles leaned against the caravan, his arms folded. “He came to me for guidance. He wasn’t sure if he even _wanted_ to help her.”

It took her a second to process everything. “You two really _are_ close if he told you all that.”

Charles shrugged as a response. 

“Why didn’t you tell this to us earlier?”

“I was caught off-guard. And I didn’t think it was all that important.”

A pause. “Can I tell the girls?”

“If you want.” 

“Hey Charles! Mary-Beth! Come back here!” Karen yelled, waving her arms. “We were gonna start drinkin’!

“I was going to call it a night!” Charles called back. “It’s been a long--”

“C’mon, one drink?” Javier pleaded.

He looked at Mary-Beth. She cocked her head over to them. “C’mon.”

“All right, fine!”

He was met with whoops and hollers. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all! Hope you're ready for more talking! enjoy! :)

Arthur’s head was spinning. He wasn’t sure if it was from the absinthe or from the flurry of information that Charles was throwing at him. His hand was cramping from the notes, barely legible even in this state.

“And now the most important part, besides patience!” Charles said, making grabby hands at Arthur’s journal.

“What, what is it?” Arthur didn’t give him his journal.

“ _C’mon_ ,” Charles groaned, voice raspy. “Just give me a page!”

Reluctantly, Arthur tore a page from his journal and passed it over to him. He pulled out a pen from his waistcoat. In a fancy script, he wrote a single word. He held it up for Arthur to read. “Do you know what this is?" 

Arthur squinted. “Va—vasel—what in the _hell_ does that even say?”

Charles rolled his eyes. “ _Vaseline_ !” He pronounced it like _vayse-el-een_. “Very important for buggering!”

“Ain’t that used for dry skin an’ stuff?” He always saw it in the general store, but never bothered to pick it up.

“It’s multifaceted! Lubrication of all sorts! It does wonders for your experience!” He explained, drawing a detailed sketch of the tin. 

“I mean, if it’s lubrication I need, I got some gun oil in my bag—”

“ _Pahh_ , _please_ spare me the overwrought metaphor of using that for fucking! You Americans and your guns...” He finished off his drink. “I should also mention to stock up on prunes, in case you need help _clearing_ things out.”

Arthur could have sworn Charles winked at him.

He was starting to feel dizzy. This was all too much, too fast. Putting the “crash” in crash course. “Could we, uh, go back to—" 

“I’ve told you all I know, _mon ami_.”

“Yeah, but you went so damn fast—” He flipped through the pages of his journals, his writing getting more and more legible over time. “I couldn’t really keep up.”

Charles pulled out another cigarette and lit it with his fancy lighter. If Arthur weren’t so amused by him (and drunk, on top of _that_ ), he would have stolen the lighter a long time ago. “What do you need to know more about?”

“Uh—” He flipped back a couple of pages. “Suckin’ someone off?” He felt embarrassed saying it outloud.

“Mm,” Charles exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Something I _hope_ you’re familiar with.” A pause, before he added, “At least on the receiving end.”

“Not as often as you’d think…” He muttered.

“But you have gotten at least _one_ , no?”

He nodded.

“Toughest part is gag reflex. Is your partner, ehh--?” He held out his hands, making the space between them wider.

Arthur wanted to die. “Stop _doin_ ’ that!”

“Listen, they always say it is not the size of the boat, it’s the motion of the ocean.” He put his cigarette to the edge of his lips. “And that is true, but no matter what you’re doing, it is hard for the ocean to swallow the boat whole!”

“Think your metaphor got a little lost there, friend.” He flagged down the bartender for some coffee.

“No matter the size, you have to be careful.” He rested his cigarette on the ashtray. “Listen, _write this down_ .” He emphasized by tapping at the corner of Arthur’s journal. “A prostitute in Avignon taught me this one.” He held out his hand, tucked his thumb into his palm, then wrapped his fingers around his thumb. “ _Voila_! No gagging! Works like a charm!”

Arthur was doubtful with this advice. He scrawled a step-by-step drawing of the hand maneuver. The bartender brought two mugs of coffee to them. At this point, anything would help them. It tasted godawful. 

“Oh, _merde_ \--” Charles stubbed out his cigarette and ducked down.  
  
“What, are there people lookin’ at us?”  
  
“You could say that.” He leaned out to look at the two men who just walked into the bar. Arthur turned as well. They looked like the kind of fellers Arthur beat on the regular. He wasn’t fazed. “I owe those men money.”

“How much money we talkin’?” 

“ _Hundreds_.”

“What’d you spend it on, vaseline?” Arthur laughed.

“Be _quiet_! This is serious!” He kicked Arthur’s shin so he could turn around. “I spent all their money on paint and booze!”

“Jesus, why’d they lend it to you?”  
  
“American men,” he shrugged, “so careless with their money so long as it makes them _more_ money.”

“...Well, ya got that right.”  
  
“Hey!” One of the men shouted, catching Charles’ eyes across the bar. “It’s about time you owe us, Mr. Chatenay!”

“Ah, _bon soir_ , gentlemen! I will have the money tomorrow!”

“We don’t want it _later_ ,” the other said, cracking his knuckles. “We want it _now_.”

“Quick, Arthur, do something!”

Arthur groaned, annoyed that he had to fight at all. A night in the city still ended in a brawl. If he wanted this, he should have stayed home. Ah well.

He grabbed the cup of coffee and threw it in the man’s face. He screamed from the burns. As for the other man, Arthur took the cigarette tray and threw it at him.

“Out of my bar!” The bartender yelled, although he didn’t seem too surprised by the action.

They didn’t cause any fuss as they left. The only issue was walking out the door. Arthur was glad he didn’t actually _fight_ these men. It felt like his limbs were only being held together by his clothes. Like he didn’t have bones.

As they got outside, Arthur propped himself up on the wall. He fumbled for his watch. 

_Three a.m._

“Ah, Christ, I gotta get home.” He felt like sleeping right there on the street. It hadn’t stopped him before.

“Nonsense, you can stay at my studio!”

The suggestion went into Arthur’s ear, taking its sweet time to work its way through his brain. “All right, but no funny business.”

“What is funny about this?”

“I _mean_ you tell me all about vaseline, and, and weird hand maneuvers for-- _whatever_ \--an’ now you’re inviting me to your studio?”

It took a second for Charles to figure out what Arthur was saying as well. Then it clicked. He scoffed. “I already told you that you are not my type. Now come on.” He yanked Arthur by his suspender strap, then gripped onto it for support. 

“All right Charles-- _heh_ .” He stumbled along like a fish on a line.  
  
“What’s funny, cowboy?”

“The man that--I, well, his name is Charles as well.”

“How amusing.” Charles said, not sounding amused. He was too focused on trying to find his studio. 

“An’ I think I love him? I love Charles? Not you, but the _other_ Charles, _my_ Charles. But I dunno if I can tell him or if he feels the same ‘bout me--”

Charles stopped, grabbing Arthur by the shoulders. He was so much shorter than Arthur, even with his poor drunk posture. “Listen, _mon ami_. I cannot help with matters of the heart. I only help with matters of the cock.” He let go of his shoulders and continued on walking.

“Real shame ya can’t--” Arthur said, struggling to put one foot in front of the other.

Charles rubbed his temples. “ _Mon dieu_ , I could sleep for a millenia. Why did you insist on ordering absinthe?!”

“Weren’t me that wanted to order that green shit!” Even thinking of the sugar melting into the drink made him queasy. 

“Ugh,” Charles stumbled down an alleyway. “I’m just glad the hallucinations haven’t started yet. Here we are--” He searched for his keys in his pocket.

“Wait...the _what?!”_

\--

One drink turned into four. Charles split a couple bottles of wine between Karen and Sean.  
  
Mary-Beth, too wrapped up in the book she was reading to bother with drinking, stayed around the campfire for a polite amount of time, then made herself scarce. Things got sloppier from there. The singing got louder. Javier’s playing got more animated and less…good. 

But Charles felt nice. He always forgot how much he loved drinking wine. It made him warm, happy, _giggly_ even. Certainly something to remember later. He rested his head against the log, laughing at the off-key rendition of “Ring Dang Do.” 

That is until Hosea opened the front door. “Shut the hell up, you lousy bunch of drunks! Go to bed!” He slammed the door to punctuate his command. 

The singing stopped, replaced with giggles and laughter.  
  
“Looks like the jig is up.” Javier laughed, resting his guitar behind him. “Ah well, it was fun.”

“Should we take this party elsewhere, my sweet?” Sean asked Karen, teeth stained with wine. 

“I ain’t your _sweet_ , ya drunk fool!” Karen slurred. Nevertheless, they snuck off a moment later, if a little clumsily.  
  
Charles, looking over to see Tilly and Javier sitting _comfortably_ near the fire, decided to also announce his leave. “Good night, you two.”

“Night Charles!” Tilly called. 

He wasn’t sure what compelled him to go to the house, but he allowed it to happen.

“Hey Smith!” Javier yelled, “Your bed ain’t in the house!”

“I’m aware.” He raised his hand in acknowledgement.  
  
The house creaked and groaned with each step as Charles made his way upstairs. He hadn’t seen what Arthur’s room was like. He figured, in his looser mind, that he wouldn’t care if he were to take a peek.

He also wasn’t aware of the hole in the wall that led into John’s room. How invasive it felt even walking _past_ it--

The door to Arthur’s room, like everything else in this house, creaked as it opened. Opening it only halfway, the loud squeak of the hinges hurting his ears, he squeezed himself through the opening.  
  
The moon shone through the open window (literally open, as in there was no pane), lighting up the room. He could make out the cigarette cards on the desk, the crumpled notes and flowers beside it. The harmonica he’d been meaning to give to Sadie. It looked like he took Charles’ advice to take out some things from his satchel, if only for his shoulder’s sake. He noticed the photos on display in the cabinet. Of his mother, of his dog Copper, of his good-for-nothing father. Mary’s photo wasn’t even face down. He couldn’t find it.

Not that he was looking for it. 

Stumbling, he undressed down to his union suit. He slipped into bed, sighing at the cushioning. For so long he’d been sleeping on the ground. He inhaled the smell of the sheets. It smelled like Arthur, or more importantly, a _clean_ Arthur. With just a hint of smoke and gunpowder, mixed in with soap and pomade. He tucked himself into bed, taking one last look at the full moon out the window before he shut his eyes.

\--

It turned out when Charles said he had a studio, he meant an _artist’s_ studio. Nary a spare couch or bed to be found. There was, however, a chaise lounge, which Arthur was _not_ going to sleep on, undoubtedly due to the potential volume of mysterious fluids in the cushioning. “Don’t mind the mess,” Charles said, stumbling through the dark as he adjusted the lantern’s glow. When his eyes adjusted to the light, he was met with bright and garish paintings of nude women and men.  
  
“You’ve got quite the style of painting.” Was all Arthur could say, surprised by the nudity. 

“I have a show in a few weeks. Maybe if you showed up it wouldn’t be so _fucking_ boring and trite.”

“Can’t guarantee _that_ ,” Arthur said, too drunk to ask for more details. “Ya mind if I sleep on this?” He pointed to the pile of unprimed, unslatted canvas fabric.

“Go ahead, maybe your _essence_ will wear off onto it.” Charles unbuttoned his waistcoat.  
  
Arthur all but passed out on the pile of fabric. It was almost disappointing there were no absinthe-induced dreams. He dreamt only of green fairies in a vast meadow...

\--

Abigail woke up to the feeling of Jack’s little hand on her shoulder. “Momma, wake up! Mister Pearson is making hotcakes.”

“Hotcakes, really?” She asked, eyes still closed. John wasn’t in bed with her. Probably first in line at the griddle, if Pearson’s cooking was to be believed. “Let me get dressed and I’ll come downstairs.”

Jack looked through the hole in the wall. “Uncle Arthur’s home!”

“I thought I heard his door close last night.” She yawned, rubbing her eyes.

“Can I ask him if he wants pancakes?”

“I think that’s very generous of you. I’m sure he’ll love that.” She finally sat up in bed, dark strands of her hair falling out of her updo. Jack ran across the hall to Arthur’s room. “Make sure to knock!” She said, sitting up a little straighter in bed to make sure Jack listened.

Jack knocked a couple of times, then let himself in. “Uncle Arthur, there’s--” He stopped when he saw it was actually Charles sleeping in Arthur’s bed. “Oh, hi Charles!”

“Good morning Jack,” he blinked a few times, confused by the small child staring at him. 

“Why are you in Uncle Arthur’s bed?”

Thinking of a lie good enough for a kid (and easy enough for his sleepy brain), he said, “Arthur told me I could use the bed when he’s not here.”

Jack seemed to buy it. “Oh. Okay. Mr. Pearson is making pancakes if you want any.” His eyes wandered away from Charles and over to the stack of cigarette cards on the desk.

“I’ll be down in a bit.” Charles said, rubbing his face. There was a long pause as he stretched and scratched at his sides. He looked back over at the boy. “ _Jack_.”

“What?” He asked flipping through the cigarette cards.  
  
Charles smiled, amused by the short attention span. “I need to get dressed.”

“Oh, okay Charles!” He ran off, the cards in his hand.

“Hey, put ‘em back!” Charles called out.

Jack’s feet pitter-pattered as he came back into the room, placing the cards back in their rightful spot. Jack closed the door behind him.  
  
As Charles got back into his clothes, which smelled like a campfire, he heard Jack say to his mother, “Uncle Arthur isn’t home yet. Charles is sleeping in there because Arthur said that he could.”

There was a strange pause from Abigail that immediately set Charles on edge. “Well, that ain’t no business of yours. Now go get some hotcakes, okay?”

“Okay!” The boy all but flew down the stairs.

When Charles exited Arthur’s room, he caught eyes with Abigail.   
  
She gave him a peculiar look.

Charles’ heart sank.  
  


\--

Arthur finally woke up in the early afternoon with a splitting headache. He sat up, canvas still stuck to his cheek, trying to adjust his vision to the brightness of the room. The balcony door was open. He saw Charles outside, smoking a cigarette.  
  
Arthur steadied himself as he got up. Then he noticed his shirt was on the floor. “When in the hell did I take my shirt off?” He asked himself.

Despite the rhetorical question, Charles turned around. “Ah, I was wondering when you were going to wake up.”

“You could have woke me up.” Arthur shook the dust off the shirt before sticking his arms through the sleeves.  
  
“I _tried_ to wake you up. Numerous times.” He stubbed out his cigarette, coming in from the balcony. “You were like a corpse.”

“We _did_ drink a lot last night.” Arthur said, trying not to even _think_ of the color green.

“I drank _just_ as much as you, and look at me!” He certainly didn’t look worse for wear. Arthur chalked it up to his French genes.

There was a knock at the door. Arthur unzipped his pants to tuck his shirt in. 

Charles opened the door. “ _Bonne apres-midi, ma cherie._ ” He greeted, his French sounding slick.

“Hello,” the woman said with a Southern twang, distracted by Arthur tidying himself behind Charles. “Did I come at a bad time?”

“No, not at all, my guest was about to be going--” He ushered her in, giving Arthur a look. “Right?”

“Yeah, sure am.” Arthur buttoned up his pants and pulled his suspenders over his shoulders. As he gathered up the rest of his things, he tried not to focus on the hushed whisperings between Charles and this woman.

“I would have come later, but my husband--”

“Shh, it’s okay. You didn’t interrupt anything.” He kissed her on the cheek. 

“All right,” Arthur announced. “M’off.”

“I hope to see you at my show in a few weeks, cowboy!” 

Arthur put his hat on. “I’ll try my hardest to make it to the city. Until then--” He tipped his hat at the two of them, then left quickly. The last thing he wanted to hear is grunts and moans, especially with a killer hangover. 

He whistled for Beeve. Thankfully he wasn’t too far from the station. He heard the hooves clicking under cobblestones.

“Hey boy,” he greeted, giving him a pat and an oatcake. “Let’s go home.”

\--

“Javier, do you have watch tonight?” Charles asked, sitting near him around the fire. 

Javier dug into his pancakes. He put some jam on his. “Think so, why?”

“Could we switch?”

“What time do you have?”

“Graveyard.”

Javier took some time to swallow the bite of pancakes, washing it down with bitter coffee. “Mm.” He thought some more. “What’s the occasion?” 

_I wanted to see if Arthur and I could spend some time together tonight, even if it’s just talking_. “I didn’t sleep very well.”

“I mean, I didn’t either,” Javier gave him a look that said _stop complaining_. “But--” He might have sensed Charles’ nervousness. “--okay.”

“Thanks.” He waved to Tilly as she walked by. Javier turned bashful. “...What is it?”

“Not sure what you mean.” He took a bite, playing it cool. 

“Anything happen between you two last night?”

“ _No_ .” He said a little too harshly, then recanted. “What I mean to say is that Tilly wants to take it slow, and I respect that.”  
  
“Sure hope you would.”

“You know what I mean, Charles.” He took another swig of coffee. “I’m sure you heard that Sean and Karen fucked behind the chicken coop.”

Charles laughed. “No, didn’t hear that.”

Javier chuckled. “Well if you hear the ladies clucking every time Sean walks past, _that’s_ why.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” It was certainly something else to tell Arthur when he got back. “Thanks for switching with me.” He patted him on the shoulder, getting up from where he sat.

“You owe me one, Charles!” Javier called out.  
  
“I know I do!”

\--

Arthur returned around dinner time. Right at the time Charles was keeping watch of Shady Belle. Even hearing the sounds of Beeve’s hoofprints made Charles’ heart skip a beat.

Arthur stopped before getting to the brick wall. As he stepped off his horse, he seemed _different_ . Slightly more confident in his stride over to Charles, slightly more ambitious as he kissed him, much more _handsy_ than he’d been since their partnership had begun. 

As much as he liked the confidence, he felt odd about it. “What is this?” Charles asked as Arthur moved down to his neck.

“What do ya mean?” 

“Look at you, you go off and help Mary, and you come back all—” He didn’t know what to make of Arthur right now. “ _This_.”

Even just hearing her name feels like a distant memory. “Sorry. Sorry. I uh—I don’t know where to start.”

“Arthur—” He placed a stabilizing hand on his shoulder, concerned. “Did something happen to you?” 

“What? Oh, no, no. It was a _fine_ trip an’ all. Just… _weird._ ”

“It was ‘ _weird_?’”

“Yeah, I dunno how to even _begin--_ ”

“You could start from the beginning,” Charles offered.

Arthur told him about his adventure in the city. All about Mary and helping out her and her father, then their uncomfortable goodbye at the station. “Mary asked me to run away with her.”

“And why didn’t you?” He smiled.

Arthur playfully shoved him.

“I told her ‘bout you.” A beat. “Well, just that I was seein’ someone.”

“She didn’t ask for any details?”

Arthur thought about her as she asked “do you love her?” “Nothin’ really. I didn’t want to lie.”

“Mm.” Charles thought about his time in St. Denis. It didn’t sound all that peculiar. “Where does the strange aspect come in?”

“ _Well_.” Arthur cleaned his throat. “I talked to this little French guy at a saloon.”

“Oh?” Charles cocked a brow.  
  
“Yeah, his name was Charles s’well. He looked through my journal.”

“And you _didn’t_ kill him?”

“Somehow I controlled myself.” Arthur gave him a smirk. “He was an artist. Real strange feller. He gave me some--well, some _lessons_.”

“Mm, art lessons?”

Arthur tipped his head down. “Not quite.” He fished out his journal, flipping to the last few pages. He showed it to Charles. “He gave me some other _important lessons_ .”  
  
Charles looked at the crude writing and even cruder drawings. He squinted at the page. “What exactly am I looking at?” 

“Ya can’t tell? Arthur asked incredulously, flipping the book back to him. Then he realized why he couldn’t. If his drunk self could have scribbled, instead of tried to write or draw, maybe it would have been slightly more legible. “Ah.”

“What _were_ they supposed to be, Arthur?” Charles asked, amused by the pages on pages of vague and illegible drawings.

Arthur was silent for a while as he put away his journal. “Charles had a lot of tips to give me.” He said, pointedly.

“Yeah, I heard.”

Arthur got close to Charles’ ear. “ _Intimate_ tips.”

Then, the kissing and the handsy-ness all made sense. “...Ah.”

“Yeah. An’ now I can’t read it.”

“Just take some time to decipher it. It doesn’t have to be tonight.”

“I dunno if I’ll be able to,” Arthur muttered.

“We can figure it out together.” Charles pulled him in close for a hug. Arthur hid his face in the crook of Charles’ neck. He said something muffled against his shirt. “What?”  
  
Turning his head to the side, he asked, “You got vaseline?”

“No?”

“Mm, well that’s the one thing I can remember. M’sure you know _why_ he said we need that.”

“Not for a while, but yes.” Charles held him tighter.

“I’m sorry I don’t know any of this.” Arthur said, pulling back a little.

“Neither do I.” Then, almost as a lightning strike, he remembered. “Well…”

“What is it?”

“I’ll tell you when I’m done with my shift.”

“You’re gonna have me wait _that_ long?!” 

“Arthur, it’s nothing that _I_ did, if that will help with the waiting.”

“That’ll only make it more intriguing--”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Go and get some stew, you old fool.”

Arthur rolled his eyes back at him. “Fine, you be mysterious, and I’ll get some food.” He turned to get on Beeve.

Charles remembered the look from Abigail this morning. “Wait, Arthur--”

He turned. “What is it?”

“I, well—I slept in your bed last night.”

Arthur cocked his head. “Okay…? I mean, the bed might as well be put to good use if I’m not—”

“It’s not just that.” He peeked over the brick wall. “Jack saw me sleeping in your bed.”

After a long pause, Arthur reasoned, “Well, the boy’s still young. He might not get the _implications—_ ”

“Arthur, I heard him tell Abigail. She’s been giving me looks all day.”

Arthur tilted his head back. “What kinda looks?”

“The same kind of look she gives John when he does something foolish.”

“AH. That kinda look.”

“Yeah.” 

“Listen,” Arthur put an arm on his shoulder. “I’ll talk to Abigail. An’ even if she suspected anything, she sure as hell wouldn’t run an’ tell anyone. ‘Cept maybe John, which I ain’t worried about.”

Charles didn’t believe him, but sincerely wanted to. The last thing they needed was more conflict. “Okay.”

Arthur kissed him tenderly. “It’ll be fine, okay?”

Charles nodded. “Go get something to eat. Before anyone sees us like this.”

“I’ll save some food for you as well.” He peeked over the wall. “Wanna meet at the gazebo when your shift’s over?” 

“I was thinking the shack where we keep the hay.” A beat. “More private.”

“It’s gonna be one of _those_ times, then?”

Charles scoffed. 

“M’just kiddin,” he kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see ya at--what time?”

“Eleven.”

“All right then, eleven it is.” He climbed on Beeve and rode into camp. 

\--

“Well well well, look who it is!” Micah groused. He must have seen Arthur ride in earlier, since he was waiting by the other horses. “Surprised to see your ugly mug so soon!”

“Yeah, I could say the same for you,” he mumbled as he stepped off of Beeve. He walked past Micah without another word. 

“Make sure to see the boss, cowpoke. Unless you got other plans to _leave_ again.”

Arthur sighed, walking away. “Alright, I will.” 

He was met with the usual greetings from the camp members. His presence alone was enough of an answer that he _didn’t_ take Mary back. Nevertheless, the ladies seemed happy he was there and not, well, with Mary.

“Any of y’all seen Abigail?” He asked, spooning some stew into a bowl.

“She’s upstairs!” Karen called out.

Stew in hand, Arthur went up the stairs. Dutch’s room was open. He figured it would be easy for him to talk to Dutch now. He got just past the doorway, only to find Molly in the room. She was crying softly, her eyes puffy. 

“Miss O’Shea,” Arthur greeted, his voice low. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, what do you care?” She wiped her eyes. “All you care about is what—” She sniffled. “What Dutch thinks.”

Arthur looked down the hallway to see the lantern in Abigail and John’s room was on. “That ain’t true.” He walked a little further into the room, timidly. 

Molly didn’t stop him. She was sitting at the edge of the bed, wiping her eyes.

“You’re only going to tell Dutch about me crying, aren’t you?” Her eyes were fixed on the floor. “You don’t really care about me.”  
  
“C’mon Molly, you can talk to me. I know ya ain’t got anyone to talk to, Dutch included. An’ I ain’t gonna tell Dutch.” He noticed the edge in his tone, then took a breath, speaking softer. “Is there anythin’ I can help with?”

She sniffled, biding her time. She cleared her throat, then started to speak. At first it was difficult to keep her voice level. “I _love_ him. Or, maybe, _loved_ him. I’m not so sure about what I’m even doing here. What _we’re_ doing here! He won’t talk to me. I’ve tried dozens of times to get an answer out of him over what his plan really is. He only gets upset with me over my ‘doubts.’” She tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. “Does he talk to you about me?” She held up her hand before Arthur could speak. “Don’t answer that, I already know what you’re going to say.” She put her head in her hands, breathing shakily.

“Listen, Miss O’Shea—” He wanted to refrain from lies. He could tell she was in a bad way, and had been for a while. The most he could afford her was the truth. Or, at the very least, half-truths. “I know Dutch cares about you. But I also—” He struggled to find the words. “I also know he’s under a lot of pressure tryin’ to keep this camp runnin’.”

“Just like you to make excuses for him—” she muttered.

“And maybe that’s what I am doin’, but I’ve known Dutch long enough to know that he never knows when to throw in the towel.”

What he was getting at seemed to dawn on her. “What are you saying?”

“I’m sayin’—” he sighed, hanging his head. “Dutch can’t give you what you want. An’ don’t act like the entire camp hasn’t heard you two screamin’ and fightin’ for the past few months.”

Molly looked at Arthur for the first time in their conversation. She seemed more clear, less torn up by all the things she wanted to deny.

“I’m real sorry to be the one to break this to you, but if you were waitin’ on Dutch to end it, then…you’d be waitin’ for an awfully long time.”

“So this has happened before?” Molly asked, voice timid.

“More’n you’d think.” He grabbed his bowl of stew. “I ain’t sayin’ you need to leave him, but I just thought you deserved to know.”

She huffed a sigh. “You could’ve saved me months of pain if you told me back in Blackwater.”

He stood. “I know. Call it, I dunno, an attack of a conscience, or something.” As he turned to leave, he could have sworn he heard a hushed “thank you.” He didn’t dwell on it.

Closing the door behind him, he walked down the hall. Sure enough, Abigail was in the room, folding up laundry. Incapable of feeling like some weird Peeping Tom, he knocked on the wall, looking in through the hole. “Uh, Abigail?”

“Evening, Arthur.” She set the folded sheet next to her. 

“Mind if I come in?”

She nodded.

“I uh, hope you don’t mind I’m eatin’ in here.” He took a bite of his lukewarm stew.

“Not at all. Just ‘cause we’re in a house don’t mean we all have manners all of a sudden!”

“Okay.” He smiled, resting against the dresser. This conversation was going to be a little bit tougher than talking to Molly.

“Were you talking to Miss O’Shea? Not that I was tryin’ to listen or nothin’.”

“I was.” He took another bite. “Kinda hard not to eavesdrop in this house, ain’t it?”

“Sure is. I came up here to get away from all the noise, then Molly comes stompin’ up here and crying—” She shook her head. “Sounds like you got through to her what I tried to tell her a number of times before.”

“Mm, maybe she was too caught up in the denial before.”

“Maybe so.”

Arthur stirred his stew. “I wanted to talk to you about Jack.”

“What’d he do now?”

“Nothin’ he hasn’t told you. I just wanted to talk about what he saw.” 

Abigail stopped folding the clothes, putting them in her lap. “’What he saw?’”

“Jus’ that he saw Charles sleepin’ in my bed while I was gone.”

“Oh, he did tell me about that.” She didn’t seem to think about the implications.  
  
“Listen, not that I think you’ll tell anyone, but you know how rumors spread ‘round here.”

“What, you allow Charles to sleep in your bed for a night while you ain’t here, and people would think you’re some kinda…” She trailed off, not daring to say the word.

“ _Yeah_ , I do, ‘specially considerin’ the more unsavory members we have in camp right now.”

Abigail continued to fold laundry. “...But you _ain’t_ one, right?”

Arthur shook his head, jaw clenched.

“Figured you weren’t, but I just thought I’d ask.” She placed the folded laundry on the bed. “So you didn’t take Mary back?” She smirked at him. 

“Not even close.” He finished off his meal. “You enjoy your night now, Abigail.”

“You as well, Arthur.” She waved to him. 

He went into his room for a moment, just to change his clothes. They smelled like sweat, paint, and cigarette smoke. He set his bowl on the desk, then shook himself out of his clothes. 

As he got dressed in clean clothes (including some fancy new checkered pants he got recently), he sat down on the bed as he pulled his socks on. He smelled his sheets. A mixture of his own scent and Charles’ scent. He exhaled, the smell sticking in his nose. He wasn’t sure what kind of soap or shampoo Charles used, but it was intoxicating. He stopped, suddenly feeling weird about the walls being too thin, worried about if he’d start groaning or making all sorts of strange noises.

He tugged on a different pair of boots, then grabbed his meal and went back outside. The stew was gone by the time he got out the door.

Arthur tossed his dishes into the soapy water. He checked his watch. Almost ten. Where did the time go? He got another bowl for Charles. As he doled out the remainder of the stew, Tilly sidled up to him.

“Evening Arthur!”

“Evenin’, Miss Tilly.”

“Glad to see you came back."

“Why wouldn’t I have come back?” 

She gave him a look. “We all know why you went to St. Denis.”

Arthur scoffed. “You really thought she was askin’ to run away with me?”

A beat. “Yeah, we did.”

“Who’s ‘we?’”

Tilly looked back at the camp. “...All of us."

“Mm, find that hard to believe.”

“Well, except Mr. Smith of course. On account of you letting him read her letter.”

“What?”

“He told Mary-Beth.”

“An’ she told y’all.” He set the ladle down into the pot, giving himself time to think of a lie. “Well, Charles is better with matters of the heart, an’ all that.”

“Even though he’s never been in love?”

“ _What_?”

“That’s what he told us last night. We were going ‘round the campfire and talking about first loves. Then he said that.”

The stew was starting to burn his fingers through the bottom of the bowl. “Surprised he talked that much.”

Tilly smirked. “Well, it did take some coaxing.”

“I bet.” He tipped the bowl up. “Speakin’ of, I gotta bring this to him.”

“Talk to you later, then?” She seemed surprised by his sudden exit.

“Yeah, later!”

\--

  
Charles was five hours into his night watch when he started to get bored. In order to keep himself awake, he scratched off the moss and lichens with his pocket knife. It was at least a minor distraction from his boredom. 

Well, not that he was interested before. There was nothing like standing in the darkness, waiting for something to happen. He almost wished some straggling Lemoyne Raiders or O’Driscolls wandered by. Or maybe some soldiers who still thought the Civil War was still going on.

His feet felt numb. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 

Hearing footsteps walk toward him, he peeked over the wall. It was Arthur, with a bowl of stew in his hand. “Is that for you, or for me?” He motioned to the bowl.

“For you.” He said, keeping the bowl close to him. Charles held out his hand. Arthur stepped back.

“What is it?”

“You ain’t ever been in love?”  
  
“Ah, the ladies told you that?”

“Sure did.” He handed him the stew, the broth sloshing a little as he passed it. “I just find it hard to believe.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, I mean—you’ve never been in love? Not even a little bit?”

“How can you be in love _a little bit?_ I thought it was an all-or-nothing kind of situation.”

“I mean like a crush, or likin’ someone a whole lot—”

“Mm, crushes, sure. _Liking_ —” He gave Arthur a look. “Absolutely.”

“But never love?”

Charles shrugged, taking a bite of the stew. “Guess I’m not as fortunate as you were.”

He scoffed. “ _Fortunate_.” Kicking at a rock on the ground, head tilted. No need to comment on that.

“I would’ve waited for you to be done with your shift until I gave ya some stew, but it was nearly empty when _I_ got there.” 

“Mm,” he took a bite. “Thank you. You missed out. Pearson made pancakes this morning.”

Arthur swallowed. “He did, huh.”

“Are you upset you didn’t get any?” Charles noticed the shift in his expression.  
  
“I, uh, well...yes?” 

“You lyin’ to me?” Charles scraped at his bowl. 

Arthur looked back at the house, the decrepit building that the gang has made a home out of. He drew the scene in his journal with the caption “home for now.” The length of stay here was tenuous at best. Arthur cleared his throat. “Pearson always seems to make somethin’ like that before times get real tough.”

Charles wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, I’ve been here long enough to know that.”

Charles swore, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. “Seems like times have been tough for a long time now.”

“I know.” He sighed. “Maybe it could be nothin’. No point in worryin’ ‘bout it now.” He held out his hand to take Charles’ bowl back up.

“I guess not. We just have to be careful, okay?”

"Careful is my middle name."

Scoffing, he said, "Sure. I probably should get back to it.” Charles picked up his rifle again. “Never know who’s lurking out in the woods.”

“Ehh, the worst thing ain’t even out there. He’s in camp.”

Charles suppressed a laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

Arthur gave him a pat on the arm. “Gonna get the dishes back.”

"See you at eleven?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

  
\--

  
Arthur was lighting up a cigarette as he heard Charles’ footsteps drawing near. He set up his lantern and his bedroll on the ground. “Evenin’.” He said with a smile as Charles rounded the corner of the shack.

“Surprised you didn’t make a little bed in the shack.” Charles said, sitting down next to Arthur with a slight groan.  
  
“Charles, what kinda man do you take me for?” He asked wryly, passing him the cigarette. 

“A kind of man who was close to pulling me off in the open a couple of hours ago.” Charles took a drag as Arthur sputtered. “Trying to deny it?”

“I wasn’t tryin’ to pull you off.”

Charles exhaled. “Sure. I know where your hands were going to go.”

“Maybe for a second, I thought of it.” 

“More than a second.” He muttered, resting his back against the shack. The rotten wood groaned at the weight. “Now I understand why you didn’t want to open the doors to this.”

“Foundation seemed all off.” Arthur reasoned. He passed the cigarette back over to Charles. “Wasn’t gonna pull you off earlier.” He said quietly. 

Charles scoffed. “Whatever you say.” He motioned to Arthur’s satchel. “I want to see what you learned last night.”

“‘Learned,’” he said amusingly, flipping through to the back pages. “Here, do you wanna look at ‘em?”

“Trade you.” He passed the nearly-spent cigarette in return for Arthur’s journal. A part of him wanted to flip to the very beginning, to read everything he put into there, but he stuck with the pages that Arthur dogeared before passing it over to him. In the low lantern light, he saw the word “vaseline,” written in handwriting that wasn’t his. “I’m assuming this is from the man you saw last night?”

Arthur stubbed out the cigarette into the dirt, nodding. “He pronounced it real funny.”

“Funny how?”

“Like _vayse-el-een.”_

“Like how neither of us knew how to pronounce _filet mignon_?"

“Yeah, I guess so.” 

Charles read, or tried to read, the scrawled out notes. “I can’t read much of this.”

“We split a bottle of absinthe. I was pretty drunk by then.”

Charles had heard of absinthe, but he’d never tried it. The green color always threw him off as well as the price. “I can tell, given--” He showed Arthur the sloppy drawings of male anatomy.

“I figured it would be easier to follow later!”

“Is it?”

Arthur squinted at the page. “...No.”

Charles shook his head and moved on. A crude drawing of a behind, fingers, and vaseline. “Well...I can understand this much.” He tilted the book to show Arthur.  
  
“I think that part’s pretty important.” Arthur smiled despite his embarrassment. 

Charles turned the page. More instructions. A drawing of a hand folding over a thumb. “What’s this?”

“That’s…” Arthur had to look at the pages for a while. “OH! That’s for--” He made a motion with his hand, pushing his tongue to the inside of his cheek. 

Charles stared at him. “You _need_ to stop with all of these hand movements.”

Scoffing slightly, he explained, “For suckin’ someone off.”

Charles laughed. “Obviously.” 

“Anyway, I guess if ya do that, you won’t choke on someone’s prick...I guess.”

Charles double-dogeared the page. Just in case. “I hope this will come in handy soon.” He passed the journal back over to Arthur.

“Probably won’t be tonight.” Arthur yawned.  
  
“I figured as such.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the faint sounds of crickets. Charles rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder.

“What is it you remembered earlier?” Arthur asked.

“Mm.” He thought of the memory, something that he hadn’t thought of in years. A long time ago, when he was a young man, hiding out on his own in a remote forest out past Strawberry. “One night, I was about to fall asleep when I heard voices. Two men. I immediately jumped up and grabbed my bow. I followed the echoing voices. I heard gasps, almost like pain. And there, through the bushes, I saw the men--” He paused for a second, the image of them never leaving his mind. “One had his legs wrapped around the other’s waist. I heard the sound of their skin smacking together.” 

“What did ya do?”

“I crept back to my camp as quietly as I could. This was way out beyond any towns, Arthur. Clearly this was something I wasn’t meant to see.” He put his hand on Arthur’s knee. “I didn’t know what to make of what I saw. They seemed... _desperate_ for each other. I didn’t want to take that away from them.”

Trying to avoid thinking about _him_ being the one shoved against the tree, Arthur said, “An’ I’m sure you didn’t want them to kill ya for what you saw.”

Charles laughed lightly. “That was definitely part of it.” 

“How old were you?”

“I dunno, seventeen, eighteen.”

“Did it make you think of that boy at the reservation?”

“I didn’t think of it. I tried not to.” He rubbed his thumb back and forth on Arthur’s knee. “I didn’t...really think of it until earlier.”

“...I see.”

Charles smiled to himself. “Feels like I’m confessing to you.”

Arthur laughed softly. “Hate to tell ya, but I ain’t the reverend.”

“I know.”

Arthur rested his head on top of Charles’. “Listen, Charles, I was thinkin’. What if we had a little rendezvous tomorrow night?”

“Mm, a French word.” 

“Heh, I guess it is. What do ya say? We could find a cabin somewhere, or make a camp a ways from here.”

Even though Charles wanted to jump on the offer, the more rational part of his brain took over. “Have you talked to Dutch yet?”

Sighing, he said, “Not yet.”

“You should do that before we have anything set for tomorrow.”

“I know.” He kissed Charles’ forehead. “How are you always so goddamn practical?”

Charles shrugged. “Just how I was raised.”

Putting his hand over Charles’, he said, “I’ll talk to him in the morning.”

“All right.”

“For now, I just want to lay here.” Arthur sighed contentedly, words bubbling up in his chest. He pushed them down, not having the confidence to say anything just yet.

They dozed off for a while, until Charles’ neck started to hurt. The two called it a night then, only after kissing one last time.

Charles crawled off to his bedroll, Bill nowhere to be found. Not that he was upset about it.  
  
As he drifted off, he saw a figure quietly stepping out of the house with a large bag. It looked like Miss O’Shea, and it _certainly_ looked like she was packed with no intention of returning. She made her way to one of the spare horses in camp, clicking her tongue softly before racing out of Shady Belle.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES IT IS I AGAIN, updating 2 fics a day apart!
> 
> ENJOY! :)

Arthur awoke to the sound of Dutch and Hosea talking downstairs. The Lemoyne sun was already heating the upstairs something fierce. He stayed under the covers for as long as he could bear, then got up and got dressed. He wasn’t sure what time it was. Too early.

“Ah, Arthur! Back from the city so soon?” Dutch was sitting in what used to be the dining room. Hosea was sitting across from him, reading the paper.

“Sure am.” He said as if it were obvious. He yawned, stretching. 

“Mary doesn’t know what she’s missing, son!” Hosea piped up from beyond the newspaper. 

“Agreed.” Dutch gave Arthur a look. “You’re not going anywhere this evening, are you?”

“Don’t think so, why?”

“Well, the _esteemed_ _colleague_ of ours, Angelo Bronte, has invited us to some sort of _soiree_.”

More French words.

“…Okay?”

Dutch rolled his eyes. “A  _ party _ , Arthur. We’re going to a party. Not just any party, but a real fancy one. Lots of important and powerful people will be there.”

“Might be good for us to rub elbows with the St. Denis elite.” Hosea said, folding up the newspaper.

“And who all is goin’ to this party?” Arthur leaned against the doorframe.   


“The three of us, obviously, and Bill.”

Arthur couldn’t help but laugh. “ _ Bill _ ? Why not Marston or someone?”

“Maybe before the wolves got to him we would have had him come along.” Hosea said. “He’s a little too…rough looking with those scars. But Bill can blend in.”   


“So long as he keeps his mouth shut...” Arthur muttered.

“And the same with you.” Hosea said. “Mouth shut, ears open!”   


Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“You got enough money to get measured for a tux?”

“How much do they run?” Arthur searched his satchel for cash.

“At least twenty.”

“Better have gold lined in those goddamn pockets.” Arthur licked his thumb and counted his ones.

“By the end of the night, we will.” Dutch spun his pinky ring around his finger. “The sooner you go to the tailor, the better, so—” He shooed Arthur out of the room.

“The second I get back from the city, I gotta go back again!” He closed the front door behind him.

  
\--

The tailor that Arthur met in St. Denis was quick with his needle and quick with his words. He tailored the best tuxedo twenty five dollars could buy. The only issue was waiting.

He went to the local saloon, paying for a bath (and turning down the option of a deluxe bath, their soft hands unable to hold a candle to Charles’ strong hands).

He also made a stop at the barbershop. “Big night tonight, sir?” The barber asked, combing pomade into his hair.

“Sure is!” Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he asked. “Could I also get my beard trimmed? Gettin’ kind of unruly.”

“No problem, sir.”  
  


\--

By the time he got back to Shady Belle, he was spruced up. The ladies took notice.

Charles did as well, but kept his glances to a minimum. 

“Ladies.” He greeted, tuxedo slung over his shoulder. The tailor was kind enough to tuck the suit into a cloth bag.

“Where are you going tonight, Arthur?” Karen asked, her hand on her hip.  
  
Knowing Charles was within earshot, he said, “Ah, some fancy party the mayor’s havin’. Bronte invited a few of us as guests of honor. Or, well, more like guests of _no_ honor.”

“Look at you, a real city boy!”

“Ain’t nothin’ of the sort!” He looked behind him before going back into the house. “Charles, you any good at tying bow ties?”

“Probably better than you!” He said, putting on some sort of playful tone for the ladies. It was almost a little exciting to be playing an innocent act. He followed Arthur into the house. 

Arthur heard footsteps upstairs. He was going to have to speak quietly. “Charles, when I come back tonight, let’s find a place to stay.”

“I’ll scout out somewhere while you’re gone.” He responded, voice just as low.

“Make sure it’s unoccupied this time.” He smiled.

“I will.” 

“Probably should go get dressed.” Arthur draped the suit bag over his arm.

“See you later.” Charles squeezed his arm. 

\--

Arthur stepped down the stairs, adjusting the cuffs of his suit, to find Hosea fixing Dutch’s bowtie. “I would have Miss O’Shea do this, but she seems to be missing, as of late.”

“It’s fine, I’ve fixed your tie hundreds of times before.” Hosea said, making the bowtie straight. “Ah, Arthur, don’t you look fancy!”

“I better be lookin’ fancy,” he grumbled, buttoning his waistcoat. “Paid damn near an arm and a leg for this suit.”

“Oh hush,” Dutch said, walking over to Arthur. He fixed his lapels, smoothing them out. “Soon enough, the good people of St. Denis, including the mayor, will be eating out of our hands.”

“…Right.”

Bill came in, picking and pulling at his too-tight suit. “Look at you folk, fittin’ in like upper-crust socialites.”

“Williamson, why in the hell is your suit so small?” Hosea squinted at him.

Tugging his sleeves down to no avail, he said, “You think I was going to have a suit made for me? Listen, I know what those suit makers do. _Gropin_ ’ and _caressin_ ’ you—” He twisted his face up into a sneer.

“Right, you certainly wouldn’t like that.” Dutch said drolly. “Is Javier ready yet?”

“That’s why I’m in here!”

“Well, gentlemen, our humble chariot awaits!” Hosea said, leading the pack. 

“Let’s go, Cinderella!” Dutch clapped Arthur on the back.

\--

  
As they washed dishes, the ladies heard the stagecoach doors close, with Dutch yelling something about opportunities awaiting. The stagecoach horses kicked up dust as they sped off, the men inside hooting and hollering in excitement.

“I wish just once they would have us go with them sometime.” Mary-Beth sighed, watching Javier crack at the reins on the buggy. “I’d love to get all dressed up and steal from those high falutin types.”

“You  _ always _ want to do that!” Tilly laughed.

“Yeah, but the St. Denis type people are  _ real _ rich, not like kinda rich.” Mary-Beth got lost in thought for a second of dressing to the nines, filling her pockets with jewelry and fancy pocket watches. “I mean, don’t you want to do that, Tilly?”

“Maybe, but certainly not in the south.” Tilly shuddered to think of what would happen if she were caught. “Maybe if we were back in Valentine I would, although those folk aren’t exactly rich.”

“Listen! As someone who has gotten all dressed up and played along in foolin’ men, it’s not as fun as you’d imagine.”

“Well that’s bank robbing, Karen.” Tilly interjected. “That’s different from what Mary-Beth’s talking about.”

“Yeah, I’m talking about winin’ and dinin’, actin’ like you’re just as fancy as them.” She shrugged. “It just sounds fun.”

“I guess so.” Tilly seemed unsure.

“I’m sure you’d like to go somewhere with  _ Javier _ ,” Karen said with a wink.

Tilly laughed. “What was that? All I could hear was chickens clucking.”

Karen scoffed and threw her dishrag at Tilly. In turn, Tilly flicked some dishwater at her. Mary-Beth was caught in the middle of it all. The three ladies giggled while playfully shoving each other until Susan heard them.

“ _ Ladies _ ,” she warned, passing by with a basket of laundry. “Those dishes aren’t going to clean themselves.”   


They got back to work, stifling their laughter.  
  
Susan passed Charles. “Mr. Smith, do you have watch tonight?”

Charles looked up as he was gathering his things. “I switched with Marston. He should be out there now.”

“What plans do you have?” She looked at him in a peculiar way. 

“Scouting a place for a home robbery.” He kept calm as he lied. It wasn’t entirely false, anyway.

She seemed satisfied by that answer. “Hopefully you’re better at scouting than Mr. MacGuire!”

“I’d like to think I am.” He slung his rucksack over his shoulder. “Good night, Miss Grimshaw.”

“Night to you as well.” She turned as she heard giggling over her shoulder. “ _ Ladies _ !” The giggling stopped.

Charles took this opportunity to get out of Susan’s gaze.

Just as he was about to disappear into the trees, John called out, “Where are you going?”

“Everyone wants to know what I’m doing tonight.” He muttered to himself before turning Taima around. “I’m going out scouting.”

“Scouting, huh? What are we talking, banks? Stagecoach?”

“Looking for a house to rob.” He gripped at the reins. “Arthur and I were going to stake it out later.”

John looked back at camp. “You need help findin’ somewhere? I’m sure I can get Micah or someone to man the fort—”   


“I’ll be fine, thank you.”

John sighed. “I know you will, I’m just bored! The other guys get to go to some fancy city party, and you get to go scouting for a place—” He stopped, realizing how whiny he sounded and cleared his throat. “Anyway. You owe me for givin’ me graveyard shift.”

“I know I do. I’ll give you a cut of what we find, all right?” He clicked his tongue and rode off as he heard John yell “how big of a cut, Charles?!  _ Charles _ !”

\--  
  


Arthur couldn’t  _ wait _ to leave this party. He didn’t even factor in spending the night with Charles later.

It was bad enough having to see Bronte again, the snake, and put up with his Italian asides. It didn’t take a genius to know that he was mocking them right under their noses.

Dutch seemed to relish in looking down on high society. He made niceties with Bronte, and sent the other men off on their duties.

“At least the champagne’s good.” Arthur muttered to Hosea.

Hosea took a sip and grimaced. “I don’t think so.”

Soon enough, he found himself rubbing elbows with some of the wealthiest people in the city. One of which, some poor sap named Mr. Stanton, got Arthur’s attention. Maybe it was the prominent watch on his wrist, or the gold tie clip. He couldn’t be sure.

“And what do you do, Mister…?”

“Tacitus Kilgore.” Arthur held out his hand, giving the man a firm handshake. The man’s hand was soft. Never worked a day in his life. “I’m a businessman.”

“Oh? What sort of business are you in?”

He took a sip of fancy champagne. “Transportation, mostly. Trying to invest in the horseless stagecoach.”

The other man balked. “Ha! Good luck with that. Ford and his boys have been trying to get that off the ground for years. But maybe 1899 will be your year.” He gave Arthur a mock toast.

“Here’s hopin’.” He saw Dutch stroll up to him.

“I hope my associate isn’t bothering you.” Dutch said, a cigar between his teeth. “What’s your name?” 

“Mr. Stanton.”

“Mr. Stanton here is an investment banker.”

Dutch’s eyes practically glimmered. “You don’t say? Mr. Kilgore, why don’t you find the mayor and make his acquaintance?” Dutch all but muscled Mr. Stanton away from him, an arm wrapped around his shoulder. He almost felt bad for the guy.

Arthur downed his champagne and placed it on one of the tables, then moved through the crowd. He picked up on other people’s conversations:

“I got painted by that artist from France the other day. He’s good with his brush, if you know what—”

“I had to fire my maid today. I caught her stealing—”

“Have you heard that  _ miserable _ suffragette in the city square? She’s probably still there squawking about voting rights!”

“I don’t understand how hard it is for poor people to just work harder. That’s what I did, after my father gave me a loan—”

It was all enough to make Arthur’s stomach churn. And to think  _ Mary _ was capable of turning him into a high society man.

Finally, he found Henri Lemieux, a last name in which he had no clue how to say or spell. First name reminded him of that bartender he talked to when he was in the city with Charles. He sighed internally at the nostalgia. He kept close to him, stealing another flute of champagne from the server’s tray. The mayor seemed to be having some trouble with one of the partygoers. The man was swaying slightly and gesturing grandly. Arthur got in the crowd surrounding Henri and the man.

“I am  _ telling _ you, Lemieux, you need to keep an eye on your budget, you’re going way too overboard with parties like this.”

“I can assure you,  _ monsieur _ Langdon, that our spending is just fine.” The mayor kept his face neutral despite the other man’s hassling.

“Yeah, that’s what--what that one queen of France said, and they--” He did a vertical motion at his neck. “They chopped her head off!” He grabbed Henri’s coat lapels. “Do you want that to happen to you, Mayor Lemieux?”

“Sir, is this man bothering you?” Arthur asked, smoothly sidling up to the man.

The mayor seemed surprised. He nodded, obviously grateful someone intervened. “This is why I need to limit how many drinks people can take.”

Arthur dragged the man off of the property and shoved him to the ground.

“Why don’t you do more things like that?” Lemieux asked the man next to him.

“Sir, I couldn’t possibly be so rough with a guest. Who knows what his connections are?”

Arthur, mocking wiping dirt off his hands, strolled back to the mayor and his right hand man. “Can I help with anything else?”

“No, no, you’ve done enough, mister--?”

“Ah, Tacitus Kilgore.” He shook the mayor’s hand. “So, if you don’t mind me askin’. How  _ is _ the city’s budget?”

Lemieux scoffed. “We’re broke, but this is why we have parties like this in order to  _ distract _ people from thinking we’re broke.”

“Sir!” His assistant scolded him. “There are more people you need to meet. I heard Monsieur Miller will be by soon.”

“Politics never sleep, Tacitus.” He gave him a nod. “Nice to meet you.”

“An’ you as well, sir.”

Hosea joined back up with Arthur. He whispered in his ear, “The man next to the mayor is Jean-Marc, go follow him when he goes inside. Just wait until Lemieux is distracted.”

“Alright, you got any leads?”

“Nothing yet, but this excursion is worth it, if only to see Bill in this environment.” He motioned to him in the crowd, not that the sore thumb needed singling out. Arthur laughed. The scene was certainly one for his journal. Near Bill, he saw Jean-Marc sneak away from the mayor.   
  


“All right, fun stuff’s over,” Arthur said, watching Jean-Marc weave through the crowd. He kept a good distance as he made his way to the house.  
  


\--  
  


Charles stayed very still as he watched the cabin.

He didn’t think there was anyone inside, unless they lived with the lights off and went to bed at eight p.m. It wasn’t too far outside the realm of possibility.

He crept up to the house, the surrounding grass taller than his crouched body. Originally, he looked for a place closer to Shady Belle, but after Taima got scared one too many times of the gators, he decided to move further outside of Rhodes. It might be longer of a ride, but at least it’ll be gator free. Now as for  _ people _ free, it remained to be seen. He snuck up to the window and peeked inside. It seemed abandoned, but he got his bow just in case.

He pushed the door open, the tip of the arrow going first. Nothing, no sound, no odd smells. Finally, he lit his lantern to get a better view. He reduced the flame to a low glow, just in case.

By some stroke of luck, the cabin was empty, save for a couple of rats he had to shoo out. It was pretty rustic, with the smell of dried herbs and the earthy smell of wood.

A perfect spot. 

Now to make it comfortable. 

There was a thick layer of dust covering the bed. Charles covered his face with his bandana, shaking the dust off the thin mattress. He made a mental note for later to pack an extra blanket, if only for cushioning. He coughed into his shirt sleeve, some of the dust going through his bandana. His eyes watered, but he tried to keep quiet.

When his coughing ceased, he went to clear out the fireplace. The charred wood had long since turned to dust. If nothing else, a fire would make for a nice mood-setter, even though they might not need the warmth.    


As he searched the cabin for any stray logs, he heard a strange sound outside.

A scratching sound.

He stayed perfectly still, hand hovering over his revolver.

The scratching continued, getting louder.

It was right by the window.

Charles caught his breath, cocking his revolver back. He braced himself for the source of the sounds, then hopped up to look out.   
  
He gasped, then felt foolish for being so afraid. It was just Taima rubbing her neck against the shutter outside. Charles rolled his eyes and knocked on the window. “Go on,  _ get _ !” He said quietly, shooing his horse away. Taima, being smarter than she looked, got the idea and rode a stone’s throw away from the house. Charles pinched the bridge of his nose, then got back to work.    
  
He broke down some decrepit chairs, tossing the legs into the hearth. He tore some pages out of a mildewy book, proving adequate kindling for tonight.

He was so focused on the goal at hand, he didn’t even think about what  _ was _ going to happen tonight. He’d seen the notes in Arthur’s journal, sure, but he wondered if Arthur was ready for that next step in their physical relationship.

Was  _ he _ ready?

Physical intimacy wasn’t new with him, and with the more time spent with Arthur, the more comfortable he felt about exploring these new avenues. He certainly cared about Arthur deeply, and he didn’t feel uncomfortable getting his hands on him the last night of their hunting trip. He more than enjoyed it, feeling Arthur panting against his neck, spilling over his knuckles. It was  _ flattering _ for him that Arthur was over so soon, all for his touch. And he felt just as enthralled with Arthur’s peculiar, yet careful, touches.    
  
That whole experience was something Charles revisited when he could, although the camp made it difficult for privacy. There was one time where he had the opportunity to touch himself in his bedroll. He bit his hand as he came for fear of waking anyone near him. For a fleeting second, it was a little exciting to be doing something so personal around the camp. And  _ then _ Bill had to start snoring again. It quickly got him back to his senses.

Just as he got back to his senses when he heard Lemoyne Raiders talking outside the cabin. It looked like these thoughts would have to wait until the ride home.

The voices got closer. Charles quickly crawled under the bed. It was a tight fit, being that the frame was so low to the ground, but that also meant they’d have a harder time finding him.

The door swung open, the glass on the windows rattling. “Shame no one’s in here.”

“You so sure about that?” Another asked, pointing to the corner. 

_ Shit _ , Charles thought,  _ the lantern. _

“We might have some fresh meat in here, boys. Check every square inch of this goddamn place.”

Charles quietly pulled out his revolver, eyes darting to each Raider as he counted them. There were four. He’d certainly had to kill more, but it wouldn’t be easy. He knew firsthand that they were tough, tougher than O’Driscolls.

One Raider stepped to the foot of the bed, near the hearth. “I don’t see anything, boss.”

“Look  _ harder _ , then. There’s got to be something. Check the cabinets.”

Charles looked to the other side of the cabin, watching a pair of boots stand in front of the armoire. “I really don’t think there’s gonna be anything--” He opened the door, a flood of rats coming out from the dresser. “Jesus  _ Christ! _ ” 

The men scrambled out of the cabin, the rats chasing them. Charles heard a few gunshots go off, but there was more screaming. It certainly wasn’t enough to kill any of the rats.    
  
_ Well _ , Charles figured,  _ at least the rats have all been cleared out. _

He crawled out from under the bed, brushing the dust off of his clothes. Maybe he could wash himself up in Rhodes before Arthur came back?

He grabbed his lantern, the very thing that nearly got him killed, and put out the flame. He closed the cabin door behind him and whistled for Taima.

_ Now _ he was ready to go back to his thoughts.

\--

Arthur tucked the letter into his jacket, making sure to make his way downstairs quietly. Just as he was about to go out the doors, a maid caught him. “Excuse me, sir!” She called out. He turned, keeping his expression neutral. “Your shoe is untied.”

Arthur looked down and feigned a laugh. “These damn loafers, always comin’ untied.”

“I’ll tie them for you—” she said, walking over to him.

He was concerned by the timid way she walked toward him. “Nah, I can do that. Don’t worry ‘bout it.”  
  
“…Okay.” She said quietly, then hustled into the kitchen at the sight of Jean-Marc coming back through the door.

“Monsieur Kilgore,” he greeted. 

Arthur looked up from his shoe. “Oh, hello—what’s your name again?”

“Jean-Marc.”

“Ah,” he stood. “Sorry _John_ _Mark_ , I was just comin’ back from the restroom an’ I noticed my shoe was untied.”

He didn’t seem convinced. “Right. Well when you’re done with your…shoe tying, come back outside. The fireworks show is about to start.”

Arthur double knotted his laces. As he stood, the letter crinkled in his breast pocket. “Lead the way, sir!” He said in an overly-familiar tone to distract Jean-Marc from the suspicious paper sounds. He opened the door out to the patio, the party lit up by the colorful fireworks above.

He’d never seen fireworks before. Heard them, maybe, although he always confused them with g fire. Copper used to shake something awful if he heard it off in the distance. But now, standing with a bunch of rich people, he was astounded by them. He couldn’t help but “ooh” and “ahh” at the display.

Because he was so entranced by the booming fireworks, Dutch startled him. He might have let out a little gasp, but no one, not even Dutch, seemed to notice. “Javier’s out front,” He said, having to raise his voice a little. “You find anything?”

“Sure,” he said, still a little distracted by the fireworks. It was going into the grand finale. He felt Dutch push him forward, moving against the crowd like salmon swimming upstream.

Hosea and Bill were already in the carriage. “What took you so long?”

“Arthur here was watching the fireworks like some kind of kid in a candy store,” Dutch laughed. “But he did find something. Didn’t ya, son?”

“I sure did.” He passed the letter over to Dutch. “Hope this will suffice for me takin’ so long.”   


Dutch’s eyes darted across the page, skimming it. He focused most on who the letter was from. “Cornwall.” He passed it to Hosea, his smile growing wide. “You did good, Arthur.  _ Real _ good.”

“Well isn’t this something.” Hosea motioned the letter towards Bill when he finished reading it. “Williamson, you wanna read for once in your miserable life?”  
  
Bill rolled his eyes as he unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Just give me a summary.”

“Looks like Mayor Lemieux is in the pocket of Leviticus Cornwall.” Dutch leaned forward, tucking the letter into his breast pocket. “Gentlemen!  _ This— _ ” He tapped his pocket. “This is our ticket out of this city. To greener pastures!”

The men cheered and hollered. Even Arthur was excited at the possibility of getting out of here. He could always trust Dutch to get his spirits up.

The ride back to Shady Belle was quick. Arthur was quiet as the others talked among themselves. He felt at ease, the stagecoach going over the bridge. Away from civilization, the smokestacks, the rich, the poor…everything. Out past the swamps, back to the decrepit building they called home. Arthur was almost happy to see it so soon. 

At least for now.

“Good work tonight, gentleman!” Dutch called out. He made his way to the house. “Arthur, I have some ideas about how to get back at Cornwall, if you got a minute.”

Arthur looked over at Charles and gave him a silent cue to come over. “Sure Dutch, I’d love to—” 

“Mr. Morgan,” Charles greeted with an air of  _ un _ familiarity. “Are we still going to stake out the house tonight?”

“Ah, a home robbery?” Dutch asked. “Aren’t you a busy bee?”

“I’m sorry Dutch, I—I completely forgot.” He turned his attention to Charles. “I promised Charles I’d help with this robbery. The owners are some real strange folk.”

“Seems promising, though.” Charles interjected.

Dutch didn’t seem concerned. “You’ve done more than enough for the camp tonight, Arthur.”

“I’m well aware, but I like to be a man of my word.”

Clapping him on the shoulder, he said, “I know you do, son. Hope you go and find something good.”

Arthur gave him a nod, then started to walk off with Charles.

“Arthur!” Dutch called as he walked away. “You’re going to rob somewhere dressed like that?”

“I have another outfit in my saddle bag, don’t worry.” Arthur said, continuing to walk. 

“Wasn’t worried!” Dutch called out. “Just confused.” He waved him off.

“He could use it to his advantage.” Hosea reasoned. “Like he’s some kind of….oh, I don’t know. Maybe some fancy city slicker looking for some land to start his business.”

Dutch stroked his mustache. “Ah, eminent domain and all.”

Hosea watched the two men walk out of camp and climb on their respective horses. “You think Arthur’s been  _ odd _ lately?”

“Not sure what you mean.” Dutch said with an edge to his voice.”

Hosea motioned to the house. “He just seems to have been more absent as of late.”

“Absent how?”

“I mean  _ physically _ .  _ Verbally _ it’s been about the same.” He opened the door and let Dutch inside. “I just noticed he’s been taking a lot of trips away from camp. Either alone or with Charles.”

“Well, I think you worry too much. Arthur can more than handle himself. And Mr. Smith will keep him in line.”

“I’m not worried about him, Dutch.” He thought for a moment as he unbuttoned the top of his shirt. “I just noticed it.”

Dutch walked toward the stairs. “He’s fine. He certainly did a good job tonight, didn’t he?”

Hosea sighed slightly. “He did.”

“Unless he starts shirking on his responsibilities, let him have his  _ excursions _ .”

“I wouldn’t stop him.”

Before going up the stairs, hand fixed on the handrail, he gave Hosea a look. “It’s sweet you still look after him.”

“You certainly do the same.”

Dutch laughed slightly. “I do. Good night Hosea.”

“Good night.”

“Maybe Miss O’Shea will be in my room to greet me!” He called out.

When he opened the door, Molly wasn’t there. Dutch was crestfallen at the view of his empty room. He sighed, dressing down to his underwear, then sat on the bed. He wasn’t tired, not yet. He reached for his Evelyn Miller novel, one of them, it didn’t matter which, and opened to where he had the page marked. A letter fell to the floor.

Even before he read it, he knew what it was. He unfolded it and turned up his lantern to read what it said.

_ Dear Dutch, _

_  
I figured you’d notice a letter in one of your precious Evelyn Miller books long before you would notice that I’m gone for good. I’ve waited long for reciprocation of my feelings, and maybe it was foolish of me to wait. For months now, I’ve been holding onto the idea of a man I once loved, even though he’d been changing into a stranger. I had a realization last night, after one of our numerous fights since coming to Shady Belle, that I’ll never get what I wanted from you. _

_ Don’t try to look from me. I’m on my way home. I’m catching a ship tomorrow _ .

_ I also took fifty dollars from the lockbox. I figure that’s at least what you owe me for the trouble you put me through. _

_ Learn from this. If you trick someone else to fall for your charms, I hope you listen to their needs. _

_ Otherwise they won’t stick around long, and you will die alone.  
  
_

_ Molly _

Dutch grumbled and crumpled the letter, tossing it into the trash bin. Who does this woman, this insolent child, think she is, to do this? He looked over at the trash bin with the intensity as if he could set it ablaze. She had a realization? Now? Dutch found it suspicious. He wondered if someone convinced her to leave.

Despite the mystery and anger surrounding her disappearance, he wasn’t all too heartbroken. If her letter was to be believed, she wasn’t going to run to the law and turn Dutch in. He instilled that much into her. As of late, Molly was more of a nuisance than anything. She always wanted to talk and for Dutch to explain things. He didn’t have time for doubts like that.

At least now he could have some peace. He turned his attention away from the trash and back to his novel.

\--

“How was the party?” Charles asked, riding up next to Arthur.

Arthur laughed. “ _ Party _ . Weren’t no party for me. Still felt like work. Sneakin’ around, stealin’ letters—

“What kind of letters?”

“A letter from one Leviticus Cornwall to the mayor. Seems like Dutch wants to use this as leverage somehow.”

Charles clicked his tongue. “Cornwall again? Because the last time we dealt with him was so successful.”

“Listen, I was jus’ there to steal the letter, I got no clue what Dutch has planned.”

“He probably doesn’t either,” Charles muttered. “Take a left up here.”

“How exactly did you find this place?”

“Just after some wandering. It’s not like I had it in mind before you asked me. It’s not in the bayou, I’ll tell you that much.”

“I think I can speak for both Taima and Beeve and say thank you.”

“The cabin is a way’s out though. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Maybe I should’ve changed out of this suit if this is going to be a long ride.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Charles flashed a smile over to him. “You look good.”

“I better look good, considerin’ how much I paid for it.”

“Are you deflecting what I said?”

“No, this suit was real expensive! Twenty five dollars worth. But…thank you.”

Charles smiled at Arthur taking a compliment at face value. “It was really that much?”

“This is why I could never be a real true blue city slicker. I’d need maybe, what, ten of these suits? Can’t imagine havin’ that kind of money, mostly ‘cause I can’t do math like that in my head.”

Charles wasn’t sure if he was making a joke or telling the truth, but either way he laughed.

“Did ya see Bill in his five dollar suit? It fit him like the casing of a sausage.”

Charles made a face. “I’m glad I didn’t see it.”

“He was too scared of getting fitted for a real suit, I guess. Somethin’ about a tailor touchin’ him.”

“Yeah, that sounds like him.” Charles laughed humorlessly. “The first time I slept in his tent, he told me he’d castrate me if I even placed a hand on his bedroll.”

Arthur chuckled. “He’s still sayin’ that, huh?”

“Oh, this is familiar to you?”

“Unfortunately. He definitely said somethin’ along those lines before I had my own tent.”

“Shit, Arthur...” Charles muttered. He took a right at the fork in the road.

“He’s always been like that. Real cagey and reactionary. It was funny seein’ him interact with fancy St. Denis folk tonight, tryin’ to be nice and civilized.”

“In a suit three sizes too small.” Charles quipped.

“More like four,” He laughed. “Where exactly is this cabin if it ain’t near the bayou?”

“It’s past Rhodes. We’re about halfway there.” A pause. “Why, are you nervous?”

“I wouldn’t say nervous. I mean, I just stole important information from the mayor of St. Denis, so this’ll be easy.”

Charles laughed. “ _Easy_? You’ve done this before?”

“You know I haven’t, but there’s—” He stopped to think, “There’s less risks, I guess. Stakes are different ‘n all.”

“Fair enough. We’re coming up on Rhodes now. Keep your head down.”

“’Nless I wanna lose an eye.”

“Or _worse_.”

Arthur tipped his head down, keeping his eyes low. Maybe his cleaned up look would help him hide in plain sight? He was half surprised the dirt wasn’t stained with blood, given how violent their fight was with the townspeople. They took the long way through the town, around the outskirts. “Charles,” Arthur said quietly, “Remember when we had to find Trelawny?”

“Of course I do.”

“I’m pretty sure the house he was squattin’ in was around here.”

“I think it’s just up the road. Maybe he’s still living there.”

“Highly doubt it. He probably has dozens of houses ‘round the country.”

“It would explain how rundown that house is.”

Arthur pointed out the house to Charles. It was just as ransacked as it was a few months before. “Looks like he’s moved on. Not surprised. That man’s a real rollin’ stone.”

“Probably some other squatters have taken his place.”

“Or maybe Trelawny conned them into living there.”

“That’s much more likely.”

Before they knew it, they were out of Rhodes. The town seemed pretty empty, free of Braithwaites and Greys.

Speaking of. “You ever wonder what happened to that Braithwaite woman?”

“I more often wonder ‘bout that Braithwaite treasure.”

Charles laughed. “Of course you do.”

“Listen, the Braithwaites weren’t good people, an’ I ain’t even including their past as slavers. There’s maybe one fine member of the family.” 

“I’m not saying they were.” Charles looked towards him curiously. “Which family member? I don’t think I had the _pleasure_ of meeting them.”

“The granddaughter, Penelope. For a while I was a postman between her and one of the Grey boys. Some weird kinda star-crossed lover business.”

Charles was amused. “A secret relationship, huh?”

“Sure was. I toted around a bunch of Suffragettes. She’s real progressive.”

Charles tilted his head at him. “Is this what you get up to when you’re not at camp?”

“Sometimes. Other times I’m doin’ boring things, like findin’ dinosaur bones or rock carvings.”

“…That’s _boring_ for you.” Charles couldn’t help but laugh. “The next time you have to do something boring, let me know.”

“Well, the findin’ aspect of things gets kinda tedious.”

“Fair enough.”

“Speakin’ of finding things…….you come across anything in the cabin?”

“Funny you should ask that—oh, take a left here.” They went into the wooded area. It got much darker. Arthur pulled out his lantern and sidled up next to Charles. “I was clearing out the cabin and some Lemoyne Raiders payed me a visit.”

“Are we walkin’ into a bloodbath or somethin’?”

“They got too scared by some rats hiding out in the food pantry to notice I was hiding.”

Arthur wheezed out a laugh. “They got scared of a couple of rats?”

“To their defense, it  _ was _ a lot of rats.”

“Still! They’re some of the toughest guys in the South,  _ and— _ ” He laughed harder. “Oh, that’s too rich.”

Charles laughed with him. In the lantern’s light, he noticed the familiar markers. “We’re almost there.”

“Hopefully the place’ll be empty.”

“Free of rats, at least.” Charles muttered. “Take a right here.”

“This really is out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Seclusion is important.”

“I mean, I ain’t sayin’ it’s a bad thing. I just keep thinkin’ ‘bout those two men you saw when you were younger.”

“What, like we’re like them?”

“I mean—” He struggled for a moment to find the words, eventually deciding on, “ _ —yeah _ ?”

“Mm.” Charles said, trying not to think about pushing Arthur against a tree. “I suppose we are.”

“Not complainin’ or anything. I like sneakin’ around with you.”

Charles smiled, casting a glance over at Arthur. “There’s no one I’d rather sneak around with.”

“Heh, I sure hope not.”

“There it is.” Charles pointed out the cabin. It was well hidden, especially in the darkness.

“If you weren’t here I don’t think I’d be able to find it.” He squinted, even with the lantern.

“It’s right in front of us?”

“Maybe I’m just getting too old. My eyes are going!”

Charles rolled his eyes. “You’re not old.”

“You called me old yesterday!”

“As a  _ joke _ .”

“Try an’ dig yourself out all you want, I know what you said.” He slowed Beeve to a stop.

Charles scoffed, getting off of Taima as well.

Arthur pushed open the door. “Any rats or Lemoyne Raiders in here better get out!” He called out, swinging his lantern back and forth. He paused waiting for any scampering or sounds. “I mean it!” 

“I just cleared the cabin out a couple of hours ago.” Charles said, bringing his bedroll in with him. “And save your oil, I have kindling for a fire.”

“You really thought of everything, didn’t you?”

“Just the basic things.” Charles struck a match, lighting the crumpled paper. It caught pretty quickly. The match burned down to nearly his fingertips. So he tossed the very end into the growing fire. Figuring he could light more of the kindling, he lit another match. As he was about to light the rest of the paper, he felt Arthur’s lips on his neck. “You do know I’m still holding a lit match, right?”

“Fire’s good enough,” Arthur muttered between kisses.

“You feeling impatient, Morgan?” He tossed the match into the ever-developing fire.

“Maybe just a little.” Arthur’s breath lingered along Charles’ skin. “Ain’t you?”

“I’m just more patient than you, I’d say.” 

“Or you have a better way of hidin’ your impatience.”

Charles turned toward Arthur. “Maybe that as well.”

The two kissed softly, sitting on the floor.    
  
“Aren’t you worried about your twenty dollar suit getting dirty?” Charles asked jokingly.   
  
“Twenty- _ five _ dollar suit.” Arthur corrected. “And if you want me to take it off--”   
  
“No, leave it on.” He grabbed Arthur’s hand. “I like it.”

“You like imagining how I’d look if I were a decent an’  _ upstanding _ gentleman?”

Charles laughed. “I guess I’m into pretending.” He lightly pushed Arthur back to the bed. “Let’s get on the bed.”

Arthur got up and sat on the edge of the bed. He kicked off his shiny loafers. He watched Charles remove his vest, his belt, his boots. As he was going to unbutton his shirt, Arthur stopped him. “I think...I wanna do that.” Even he sounded unsure of it. Charles’ hands fell to his sides. He stood in front of Arthur, looking down at him.

Arthur tugged the shirt out of his pants, fingers clumsily unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled at the wooden buttons on his thin union suit. It had been so long…

He felt Charles’ hand on the side of his face. “Are you okay?”

“Never better.” His hands went under his now open union suit. He caressed Charles’ torso. Charles started to laugh. “Too ticklish?”

“Just press a little firmer.” He said, laughing slightly.    
  
“That’s easy enough.” Arthur lightly scratched at his stomach. His hands slid down to the front of Charles’ pants. 

“You’re going to go right to it.” Charles said, slightly surprised.

“Should I--should I not?”

“Up to you.”

“It’s up to you as well!” 

Charles thought for a moment, furrowing his brow. “Let me sit down.”

Arthur scooted over to one side. Charles sat next to him, nudging into a kiss. Arthur kissed him back enthusiastically, a little too excited for great technique. Charles slowly crawled on top of him, his hips square with Arthur’s. “Is this okay?” Charles asked quietly.   
  
Arthur nodded, his heart thumping too loudly in his chest to focus. 

“Do you want to go further?” 

“ _ Please _ .”

Charles’ hands slid down the front of Arthur’s suit, now slightly dusty from being on Beeve and the cabin floor. “Twenty five dollars.” He muttered, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s waist.    
  
Arthur hooked a leg around the crook of Charles’ knee. He pressed his hips upwards against Charles’. 

“ _Impatient_.” Charles teased, moving down to kiss Arthur’s neck.

“Am not,” Arthur gasped as he felt Charles’ tongue on his skin, pressing against his carotid artery. He lightly dragged his teeth against the side of his neck. A small noise escaped Arthur’s mouth. 

“You like that?” Charles tugged off Arthur’s tuxedo jacket.

“Yeah.” He felt warm and dizzy.

The next thing he knew, they were both down to their union suits, rutting against each other. Charles stuck a hand between them, getting their lengths out of the thin fabric. He gripped his hand between them, stroking at an even rhythm.    
  
“Wait, I still want to--” 

“I know, I know.” Charles said softly.    
  
“I just don’t wanna be too  _ soon _ \--” He thrust into Charles’ hand. 

“We have all night.”

Arthur laughed. “You sure have a lot of faith in my abilities.”

Charles smirked. “It ain’t faith.”

“Whatever it is-- _ mm _ \--” Arthur felt the heat under his stomach build up. “Can we switch?”

“Switch spots?”

Arthur craned his neck to look at the space of the bed. There was probably enough space for him to sprawl out. “Yeah.”

Charles released his grip, then got situated where Arthur was laying. “You really want to do this?”

Arthur looked at Charles.  _ All _ of Charles. In the orange glow of the fireplace, on a bed that wasn’t theirs, in the middle of nowhere.   
  
“There’s never been a better time to do it.” Arthur said. He took Charles in his hand, making sure to keep his strokes straight. “Okay?”  
  
“You haven’t done anything,” Charles playfully chided.

“Well if I’m doin’ something you don’t like--”

“I’ll let you know.” He finished for him.

He took one more look at Charles, looking patiently down at him. Relaxed.

Arthur went down. 

Charles moaned softly as Arthur tried to do what  _ other _ Charles taught him. He wrapped his fingers around his thumb, then tried to go down deeper. His gag reflex started, causing Arthur to come up for air, sputtering and coughing.

“Either that didn’t work or I didn’t--” He cleared his throat. “--do it right.”

“You okay?”   


“Yeah, m’fine. Are--are you--”

Charles smiled warmly. “Of course I am.”

Arthur licked up the underside of his length, then continued.

Charles couldn’t decide between closing his eyes or watching what was happening. He placed a hand gently on the top of Arthur’s head, his hair messy since rolling around in bed with Charles. He kept his hips still, trying not to send Arthur in a coughing fit. 

Arthur wrapped his hand around him to cover what his mouth couldn’t. It was nice. He groaned slightly, heat pooling in his groin. 

“ _ Oh _ ,” Charles moaned, his hand resting on Arthur’s head. “Arthur--” 

“You getting close?” Arthur asked, giving his jaw a break for a moment.

Charles nodded, his brow furrowed. “You can use your hand--” He moaned despite himself as he felt Arthur’s warm mouth around him again. He came with a stuttering groan, keeping his hips from bucking into Arthur’s mouth.

When Charles finished, Arthur pulled back. His face was twisted up. “There’s a sink over there.” 

Arthur got up and ran over to the sink. He spat into the basin, running rusty water down the drain after it. 

“How was it?” Charles asked, feeling a little drunk off of what happened. 

“It’s  _ worse _ than eatin’ offal.”

“Not  _ that _ ,” Charles rolled his eyes.

“Oh, the main event.” Arthur thought for a moment. “I think I have to apologize to a few women.”

“Is that so?” 

Arthur rubbed his jaw. “That Frenchman certainly didn’t tell me I’d be so goddamn sore.”

“Sorry.” He laughed.   


“Nah, weren’t your fault.”

“It was okay, though?”

“I should be askin’  _ you _ that.”

“It was nice. Exactly what I needed.” He said with a smile.

Arthur laid down next to him on the bed. “I probably should swish my mouth out with somethin’, huh?”

“Up to you. I won’t be offended.”

There was a split second as Arthur considered his options. He found a bottle of gin in the pantry and used it as a makeshift mouthwash. He spit it into the sink, running the slightly less murky well water down the drain.

“Better?”

“I’d say so.” He went back to rest next to Charles. “Hey, I was thinkin’--”

“What?’

“You don’t gotta...y’know, _reciprocate_ or nothin’.”

Charles scoffed at him. “What if I want to do it?”

“Then be my guest.” Arthur gestured towards his lower half mockingly.

Charles slid down the bed. “Okay.” He was quick to work the buttons back down.

He gripped him in his hand, then let his mouth do the work.

It turned out Charles had no problem with the hand trick. Arthur was a shuddering mess only a few minutes later.

Charles cleaned up, spitting in the sink and swilling his mouth out with gin. Arthur watched him passively as he straightened himself up. 

“I  _ swear _ I ain’t a quick shooter.”

“I know you aren’t.” Charles prodded the fire. “And I  _ know _ it’s been years.”

“Christ, I probably sound like a broken record.” He dragged his hand over his eyes.

“You’re fine.” Charles said. “How was it?”

“I came in about three minutes, so you can prolly guess.”

He smiled, placing a kiss on his cheek.

“What ‘bout you? Did you like it?”

“I did. I liked the--” Charles demonstrated the hand trick. 

“Heh, me too.  _ Obviously _ .”

Charles wrapped an arm around Arthur’s waist. “I can’t wait to do it again.”

“Not now... _right_?” Arthur asked, having no faith in his refractory period.

“No,” he chuckled, “not now.”

They fell asleep on top of the covers, feeling all too warm from what just happened. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for M*cah B*ll and slight homophobia/racism

Arthur woke up to the sound of a single mourning dove cooing outside the cabin window. He was always struck by the somberness of the call, wondering if they were actually sad about anything. Then again, that was also when he thought they were called _morning_ doves, no “u.”

“Good morning,” Charles groaned, his arm tucked around Arthur’s waist. “Dream anything?”

Arthur smiled. “No.” And he was happy about it. He slept soundly through the night, no buried memories or trauma resurfacing.

Charles held him tighter. “Glad to hear it.”

“How ‘bout you?”

“Nothing really. I guess last night wore me out.” He laughed lightly.

“Mm, same for me.” Arthur rubbed at his jaw. He wondered what time it was. “We should probably get going.”

Charles didn’t budge. If anything, he held Arthur tighter.

“Charles,” Arthur laughed, feigning an effort in trying to get up. “Is it opposite day? Are you me?”

“We don’t know when we’ll be able to sneak away next,” he said, his voice muffled against Arthur’s back. “Let’s just enjoy it for now.”

Arthur sank back against Charles, pressing his back closer to him. “Why Mr. Smith, how will we pass the time?”

Charles laughed against Arthur’s skin. “I can think of a few things we could do.”

—

Arthur stole a swig from the bottle of gin. He swished it around in his mouth, then spat it into the sink. “Sorry I was more hands than jaw this time ‘round.”

“I certainly wasn’t complaining.” Charles stretched and buttoned up his suit the rest of the way.

“Well you were just so—” He rubbed his jaw partially in thought and partially to soothe it. “So mouthy when it was your turn. Not _mouthy,_ but ya know what I mean.”

Charles sighed, grabbing his shirt off the floor. “You have such a way with words.”

Arthur scoffed with a laugh. “Sure.”

Looking around, tightening his belt, Charles said, “You think there’s anything in here? I’d hate to come back empty handed.”

Arthur made a beeline to the fireplace. “If there’s one thing that O’Driscoll Kieran taught me, it’s to check the fireplace.” He crouched, his hand searching around for purchase. Then, his fingers ran across something smoother than the brick. He grabbed the bar.

“He took care of Beeve while you were sick.”

Arthur turned, his hands still in the fireplace. “I thought you did?”

“A little bit, sure. But Kieran knew how to soothe him. Beeve was real nervous when you first got back.”

Arthur thought for a moment, smiling at the thought of Beeve being pampered by Kieran. “When I see him, I’ll have to tell him ‘thank you.’”

“Now that I think of it, I haven’t seen him much around—"

“Holy _shit_ ,” Arthur cut him off, pulling out the gold bar. “How much do ya think this is worth?”

Charles got up to inspect it. “I ain’t no gold appraiser, but…maybe five hundred?”

Arthur whistled lowly as he cleaned the gold bar off with his union suit sleeve. “Part of me almost wants to keep this for myself.”

“But you _won’t._ ” Charles said sternly.

“I weren’t gonna switch it with a gold nugget or two, or even a bag of jewelry, to donate to the camp’s lockbox. _Definitely_ wasn’t thinking about that.”

Scoffing, Charles went back to put on his pants. “And to think being in the city would change your feelings about money.” He was being sarcastic, but it seemed Arthur didn’t take it that way given his laughter.

“If anything, it just made me want to steal _more_.”

“Fair enough.”

Arthur stuffed the gold bar into his satchel. “Lemme get my clothes. Then we can get out of here.”

Tugging on his boots, Charles said, “Don’t sound _too_ eager.”

Arthur waved his hand dismissively with a laugh, opening the cabin door to find Beeve. He whistled for him, his horse shaking his long mane back and forth.

As Arthur got dressed, Charles searched around the rest of the cabin, not finding so much as a cigarette card. Not even a stray _rat_ , at least that he could see. The Lemoyne Raiders certainly did their jobs at clearing the place out. He gave up on the search, gathering his things and leaving the cabin.

“Oh, you _did_ have another outfit in your saddlebag,” he said, a little surprised. Maybe, truth be told, he was a little crestfallen to not see him back in the tuxedo.

“I always carry different outfits on me.” He stuffed the tuxedo into the saddlebag, wrinkles be damned. “My winter coat, some lighter shirts for the heat, some coats for mild weather—”

“Didn’t know you were so thoughtful in your planning.” Charles teased.

“Oh darlin’,” Arthur said so fondly, “There’s so much you don’t know about me.”

“ _’Darlin’_ ,’” Charles laughed, trying to imitate the slight drawl in the way Arthur said it.

Arthur got up on his saddle, his head turned away to hide his blush. “What, too much for ya?”

“Don’t think I’ve ever been called that before.”

“ _Ever_?”

“Not in recent memory.” He hoisted himself onto Taima. “Ready to go?”

He directed Beeve towards the woods. “I guess.” Then, after a beat. “ _Darlin’_.”

Charles scoffed. “I dunno if that suits me.”

“How ‘bout honey? Sweetie? Light of my life?” He suggested.

“The less embarrassing, the better.”

“….Chuck?”

Charles wrinkled up his face as if Arthur asked him to go out for a drink with Micah. “Do I _look_ like a _Chuck_ to you?”

Arthur laughed. “No, I guess not!”

“That’s—” He laughed, “That’s as if I called you ‘Artie.’”

Arthur grimaced. “Okay, you got me there.”

Charles navigated them back out the forest and through Rhodes. His mind was churning through nicknames. “Did Mary ever call you anything?”

“Aw c’mon, you don’t wanna hear that.”

“Maybe I do.”

“She didn’t really call me much other than a ‘fool,’ and she weren’t wrong there.”

“…What if I called you that?”

“Ya _do_ call me that.”

“I mean as an affectionate term. No one will know.”

Arthur stroked his chin. “Maybe.” Then a smile grew on his face. “Yeah, I think that’d be good.”

“You’re my fool, then.” Charles said, unable to hide his smile. They rode along, stealing sidelong glances. He thought of something. “The ladies also told me that Dutch and Miss Grimshaw were a couple.”

“Ah,” Arthur laughed, almost forgetting it even happened. “They were. Years an’ years ago. Maybe before John was around.”

“They seem to be amicable.”

“I never think they had it confused for somethin’ other than companionship.” 

“Hm.” Charles seemed lost in thought.

“Well,” Arthur continued, “then came Annabelle. And then Colm killed her, only _after_ Dutch killed his brother.”

“So _that’s_ where it all started, huh?”

“Yeah. S’been going on for as long as maybe I’ve been ‘round. Real bitter.”

“Do you think either one of them will stop?”

Arthur chuckled. “It’ll only stop when either Colm dies or Dutch dies. Whichever comes first. Although it’s lookin’ to be Colm.”

“You think so? Given how fast and loose Dutch has been lately?”

“I mean…” Arthur cast a look over at Charles. “The man _just_ escaped from prison. His luck will run out soon enough."

Charles held his tongue.

They heard the distant sounds of gunshots and shouts as they got closer to Shady Belle. “Shit!” Arthur said, kicking at Beeve’s sides harder.

“Who do you think found us? Pinkertons? Raiders? Greys?”

“Hard to say since we seem to have quite a growin’ list of enemies!”

Charles got out his repeater. “This doesn’t sound good.” 

“It sure don’t.” Arthur looked behind him to see if there was anyone following them. “Should we lose the horses?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Charles pulled on the reins. The two men jumped off their horses, shooing them away from the woods.

There was only a scattering of gunshots, which could either be a good thing or a bad thing.

They stopped at the gates, hiding behind the brick wall. “You see anythin’?” Arthur asked.

Charles peeked his head out the slightest bit. “Speak of the devil,” he said.

“O’Driscolls?"

“There’s only a few.”

“ _Shit_ , then that means we missed a full assault.” Arthur’s hands fumbled to load his gun.

Charles started to fire in the meantime. “This won’t take long.”

Finally, Arthur cocked his gun, pointing it to the last few O’Driscolls. It only took three bullets to clear them.

“I think that’s all of ‘em.” Arthur said, looking through the scope. “Let’s go in." 

Charles slung his repeater over his shoulder. “Lead the way.”

The walk to the manor seemed to stretch out, only emphasized more by the amount of dead O’Driscolls on the ground. It looked like an all-out attack. Arthur would be surprised to see if any of the gang was still alive, save for maybe Colm.

Sadie was dragging bodies into the swamp. She was covered in blood. “Jesus Sadie, you okay?”

She watched an O’Driscoll fall into the stagnant water. “Never better.” She smiled. 

“She got on just fine!” Dutch yelled, briskly walking over to the two men. “Certainly helped pick up the slack since you two gentlemen were gone.” He got within an arm’s length of Arthur. “Where were you?” 

“I told ya, Dutch. We were scoutin’—”

“Really? _All night_ ?” Dutch scoffed, looking back at the house. He turned to Charles. “Mr. Smith, I thought _you_ scouted earlier.”

“I did.”

“Then _why_ did you have to scout again together?”

Arthur looked at the camp, feeling eyes on him. “It was a robbery. We didn’t wanna hurt no one, so we had to wait.” 

Dutch clenched his jaw. “Really.”

Arthur kept his eyes fixed on Dutch’s. “Yeah. An’ I got the gold to prove it.” He started to sift through his gold bar, trying to keep his hands from shaking.

“Save it for later. You and Charles are going to clean up around here.” He gestured to where most of the bodies were. “It’s the _least_ the two of you could do.”

Charles left without another word, wanting no part of this bubbling tension between Dutch and Arthur.

“Talk to me when you’re _done_.” Dutch all but growled before turning back to the house, taking care not to step on any of the bodies.

Arthur groaned, walking over to the closest body.

“Arthur! Arthur!” Mary-Beth called, walking over with her dress pulled up past her ankles, trying to avoid stepping in anything unsavory. “Did you hear what happened to Kieran?”

“Can’t say I did, Mary-Beth.” He grabbed the wrists of the body, dragging it to the pier. Mary-Beth followed. 

“O’Driscolls captured him and…and they—they _gouged_ his eyes out.” She said quietly

“Jesus—” Arthur coughed. “Is he…dead?”

“No, but…” She grew quiet. “It doesn’t look good.”

“Ah, he’ll pull through. I’m sure if you sit by his bed and take care of him, he’ll heal just fine.”

Mary-Beth, despite her worry, nodded. “Where were you and Charles?”

“Home robbery. It took longer than we thought—” Arthur kicked the body into the swamp. It landed with a _splat_. “We certainly weren’t planning on being out all night.”

“We could have really used you two.”

Arthur walked over to a different O’Driscoll, wiping his dirty hands on his pants. “The camp seemed to pull through just fine. ‘Cept for maybe Sadie’s outfit.”

“She was—” Mary-Beth looked over her shoulder. Sadie was sitting on the porch, still soaked in blood, smoking a cigarette. “I’ve never seen her fight like that.”

“So she ain’t as much of a shrinkin’ violet as we thought?”

“I don’t think so.”

Arthur hoisted a particularly heavy body over his shoulder. “All right, I better get back to this.”

“I understand.” She grabbed the hem of her skirt. “Glad you two are okay.”

Arthur laughed. “Yeah, ‘cept I have to deal with the wrath of Dutch after this. Maybe Charles’ll have to throw my body to the gators, once he’s done with me.”

“I doubt it!” She called out.

The two men cleared the camp out, searching through the men’s pockets as they tossed them into the swamp. There wasn’t much; only a few spare dollars and coins that will go straight to the lockbox. “Looks like the gators will have a smorgasbord for later.” Arthur laughed, wiping his hands down with a rag.

“Looks like it.”

“I gotta—” Arthur gestured to the house. “Dutch—”

“I know.” Charles smiled. “Good luck.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Arthur tossed him the rag. He walked to the house, looking over to see Miss Grimshaw bandaging up Kieran’s eyes. Or eye _sockets_ , rather. He was shaking.

Arthur bit down the burgeoning guilt. The man, despite his past, saved his life. The _least_ he could have done was save his eyes.

“Mr. Morgan,” Sadie greeted, sitting on the rocking chair.

“You gonna change your outfit anytime soon, Mrs. Adler?”

Stubbing out her cigarette, she said, “They lived in my ranch for days, my husband’s blood _and_ my blood on their hands and clothes. I feel I should do the same.”

“…Okay then.” He conceded, opening the door. 

Shady Belle looked even _worse_ for wear post-O’Driscoll attack. Bullet holes riddled the façade of the house. Windows, or at least the ones that were intact before today, were shattered. Dutch was waiting for him in what was effectively the dining room. He was looking at a map of St. Denis, but it also looked like he was busying himself until Arthur was done.

“Arthur.” Dutch greeted, despite sounding not too friendly. “Sit down.” He gestured to the chair across from the dining table.

He looked at Dutch, unsure if he was being sarcastic. His look was stern, so it probably wasn’t. Arthur took a seat on the rickety chair.

Dutch folded his hands, leaning forward. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on between you and Charles Smith?”

Arthur coughed, mostly due to discomfort rather than the swirling dust in the room. “ _What_?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.” Dutch leaned in closer. “Don’t act like I haven’t noticed your absence. Sneaking off with Charles, hiding behind excuses like ‘looking for gunslingers,’ ‘learning to hunt again,’ or ‘scouting.’” He laughed humorlessly. “You didn’t return with any payment for your efforts, no game to be seen, and no spoils from this so called home robbery. And today, you only showed up at the tail end of the O’Driscoll massacre. Don’t think I don’t know what you and Charles are actually doing.”

“And what,” Arthur asked, his nails digging into his palms, “do you think that is?”

He shook his head. “I know you two are conspiring against me.”

It felt like an anvil was lifted off his chest. Arthur laughed heartily. “ _Dutch_ —" 

“Don’t _laugh_ at me. I _knew_ it was going to happen. I knew you looked the type.” He scoffed, looking out the window at the camp. “Just like John.”

Arthur leaned forward. “Dutch, look at me. _Dutch_.”

Nostrils flaring, he looked back at Arthur. 

Arthur reached into his satchel. He pulled out the pictures of the gunslingers. “Here’s Slim Grant, Flaco Hernandez, Black Belle, Billy Midnight.” With each name he rattled off, he slid the pictures over to Dutch. “I hunted an elk, an’ Charles can attest to that, but we were ambushed by a couple tryin’ to rob us—”

“I thought you said that you ate all you hunted.” He grabbed the photographs from the middle of the table.

He cleared his throat nervously. “I was too embarrassed to tell ya that.”

Dutch flipped through the photos passively. When he got to Midnight’s photo, he looked up.

“And here,” Arthur pulled out the gold bar, still covered in soot. “This is what I found in the house.” He got up to set it down in the middle of the table. 

Dutch’s eyes grew wide. “I can see why you waited all night.”

“Prolly worth around five hundred, if not more.”

Smirking at the gold bar, he looked at Arthur. “You did good, son.” He stood, walking over to the other side of the table. Arthur stood as well, feet planted firmly on the floor. “But now, with tensions so high, you need to be here with _me_ . With your _family_ . You _and_ Charles.”

Nodding, he said, “I know, Dutch.”

“I _know_ you know. Stop sneaking off so much.” He clapped him on the shoulder.

“All right.”

Dutch pointed at the gold bar. “And put that in the lockbox.”

Arthur grabbed the bar. 

“Hosea and I are going to start planning on what to do about Bronte, if you have any suggestions.”

He shrugged. “Kill him?”

He rolled his eyes. “Besides that.”

“That’s what you and Hosea are for. You plan, I assist.”

“That’s right. You assist. And it’s hard for you to do that when you’re not here.” Dutch walked out of the room, heavy footsteps crunching on broken glass.

—

Charles went around the back of the house, only to find that there were more bodies strewn about. And by the look of them, Sadie was responsible for the mess.

Sighing, he picked up the body. Warm blood trickled down his back. It was….unpleasant. He walked closer to the stagnant green swamp water, mud threatening his footing.

Over his (and the body’s) shoulder, he heard angry footsteps. Even before turning, he knew who it was. 

“Glad you and your _lover_ made it back at the end of the show. Nearly left us high and dry.”

There was so much to comment on. He took the low hanging fruit. “ _’Lover_?’” He kept walking to the swamp.

Micah smirked, slipping in the mud slightly. “You two think you’re so slick, sneaking away on, _ugh_ , _romantic_ getaways, or cuddling in the gazebo. I saw y’all gettin’ real cozy a few nights ago. Like a couple of sinful _lovers_.”

Charles turned and looked at him. He kept his face neutral as he said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right, _sure_ I don’t. I guess I just imagined it.”

Scoffing, he turned back around. The body was getting heavy on his shoulder, and certainly more worthy than Micah. 

“Listen, _boy,_ I know a couple of filthy _cocksuckers_ when I see ‘em—”

Charles spun around and threw the lifeless body at Micah as hard as he could. The body, all literal dead weight, hit Micah square in the chest. Blood and decomposition fluid spilled out onto his clothes. Micah yelled in disgust, his gasps turning to dry heaving.

He looked down at him as he struggled to get out from under the body. “Sorry,” he said, “Must’ve slipped.”

Micah slid out from under the O’Driscoll. “You’re just mad because I’m _right_ , boy!” 

Charles breezed through camp, heart racing. His breathing was shallow. “Charles!” He heard. It was Arthur, right near the lockbox. 

“Not now.” He said, jaw clenched. “I need some time alone.”

Arthur’s expression grew soft, looking at how dirty his clothes were. He didn’t remember him being that dirty before he went into the house. “Okay.” After Charles passed he saw Micah, staggering and dry heaving, over to the campfire. They shared a glance, but nothing more. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together.

Charles grabbed a rag and a bucket of water meant for the dishes. He took a long walk away from camp, water sloshing onto his boots. A stone’s throw out past the gates, he crouched behind a tree. He whistled for Taima. She came trotting over, happy to see him. “Hey girl,” he said quietly, almost somberly. Wringing out the rag, he scrubbed the blood and mud off of his hands. As he scrubbed, all he could think of was Micah. When he first joined the gang, he was surprised by Dutch’s acceptance. It was certainly unique, given the other run-ins he’d had with gangs. It was strange how Dutch prided himself on being open minded, and yet he always stuck up for Micah. The antithesis of all Dutch said he stood for.

He stripped out of his clothes, scrubbing his skin practically raw. Trying to get the O’Driscoll blood off of him. He cleaned and re-cleaned himself until the water was pink. By the time he was dried off, his mind stopped racing. Charles took a deep breath.

Searching through his saddlebag, he pulled out a clean set of clothes. He kicked over the bucket of water. It sank into the mud. His dirty outfit was another issue for later. It would take more than just water and elbow grease to get the stains out. 

At the very least, he wasn’t covered in grime. He was calmer, but not completely.

He stayed out of camp for a while, finding a nice place to sit away from the gators. It was a large stump. Charles wondered how many years the tree had been there before being cut down. He started to count the rings. After getting to around a hundred, he lost interest. Maybe, if he were still as angered by what Micah said earlier, he’d count all the rings. Maybe that wasn’t the right way to put it. He’d always be angry about epithets being slung his way. It just seemed to take more time for the anger to sink back down. _Especially_ when he had to see the one saying the slurs to him every day. His hands curled into fists, then relaxed.

He took deep breaths. Taima nuzzled the side of his face. He closed his eyes, refocusing himself.

—

_Charles and I got back from our “home robbery,” which certainly could have gone smoother. Not the robbery; we found an impressive gold bar that went straight to the lockbox. Turns out while we were gone that O’Driscolls found our camp, if only after tearing out poor Kieran’s eyes. Hope he makes it through. As a punishment, Dutch had Charles and I dispose of the dead bodies. From the looks of the mutilated O’Driscolls, it seems that Mrs. Adler is much more of a fighter than I (or any of us) took her credit for._

_Dutch was real angry we were gone all night. It seems like it’ll be harder for us to find some time to get away from all this craziness._

_Seems like now it’ll only get_ _more_ _crazy._

Then, in a smaller script, Arthur wrote on the backside of the page:

 _I wish I could put into words the things Charles made me feel last night. And, well, this morning as well. I’ve felt all of it before, but never this…_ intensely _. I did it to him, which I might have liked even more. It’s certainly hard to say. My jaw hurts something awful, and yet…I wonder when we can try it again._

Resting his back against the log, he debated whether or not to keep that excerpt in his journal, for fear of someone reading over his shoulder. He figured his handwriting was small enough for it to go unnoticed. He read it and reread it, then finally decided to put a big X through the paragraph.

Charles got back from his respite. He had his dirty clothes under his arm, which he dropped off near his bedroll. He still seemed worked up from whatever happened earlier. He sat down at the log next to Arthur’s, more than an arm’s length away from him.

“Everythin’ okay?” Arthur asked, closing his journal. 

Charles watched the fire for a moment, taking a deep breath. He turned to Arthur. “Micah knows.” 

Arthur scoffed. “Knows ‘bout what?”

“Are you kidding? About _us_. He saw us when we were in the gazebo a few nights ago.” He muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Arthur laughed. “So?”

“He’s going to tell everyone, Arthur.”

“And who’s gonna believe him?”  
  
“Dutch, for one. You’ve seen how he’s been to him.”

Arthur scratched behind his ear. “Didn’t think about that. Although I talked to Dutch earlier and he didn’t insinuate anything.”

“Right now he doesn’t."

“Fair enough.” Arthur sighed. “He also told me to stop sneakin’ around so much.”

“Just you?”

“You as well.”

“Mm.”

“Either we—” He said through laughs, “Go off on Dutch-appointed business, or we can learn to be real quiet.”

Charles thought for a moment. “Either is good.”

“Dutch knows we work well together.” Arthur scratched at his chin in thought.

“I’ll ask in a few days, maybe before all the Bronte stuff ramps up.”

“Prolly for the best. That man runs the city. Soon enough, we’ll be havin’ to move elsewhere.”

Pearson rang the dinner bell. “All right, eat up, you monsters!” He put the pot of chili over the fire.

“We’ll talk about this later.”

“Maybe not in the gazebo.” Arthur said. _Gah-zee-bow_.

“Yeah, definitely somewhere else. Dutch won’t want things to be stagnant for long.”

—

Charles was right about _that_ .  
  
Just a couple weeks later, Dutch appointed the two of them to go into the city and report their findings on their biggest score since Blackwater: the St. Denis bank. Dutch was worried Bronte’s men would be able to spot him in an instant, especially since he turned Bronte into gator chow. It took Arthur some time to see Dutch in the same way. Charles wasn’t on that boat, but when the men came back, he knew _something_ went wrong. A trip to the city was a goddamn vacation compared to what Arthur had to do at Bronte’s mansion. 

Arthur walked in, opened a bank account (under the Kilgore name, with a paltry ten dollars as a deposit), and examined the guards in the place. Charles, in the meantime, scoped the outside, noting where rooftop exits were. 

“Eight guards.” Arthur grumbled as he left the bank. He folded up his bank card. “Only one way in and one way out.” 

“Hm. There’s at least seven rooftop exits and countless balconies in the front.”

They turned a corner, away from any lawmen that might hear them. Arthur jotted the information down in his notebook, quickly sketching the floorplan of the bank. “I didn’t see some sort of alert system, although the police are right down the street.”

Charles had his arms folded, brow furrowed. “Do you think we can do this, or will it be another Blackwater?”

Arthur sighed. “It could really go either way, but I trust Dutch to not send us on a suicide mission.”

“I sure hope not.”

Arthur flipped back a few pages, seeing if there was anything he’d missed from Dutch’s explicit instructions. It looked like everything was covered. He wrote the instructions on the same page as Charles Chatenay’s crude drawings.

Speaking of.

Arthur craned his neck down the road. “I think that funny French weirdo has an art show goin’ on right now.”

It took Charles a second to collect the dots. “...Really.”

“He invited me to it.” Arthur pocketed his journal. “An’ I’m assumin’ you as well.”

“So...we’re going to it?”

“Unless you wanna go back home already.”

“Lead the way, then.”

They walked over to a garishly painted pink and blue building. “I dunno why, but I think this is the place.”

Charles pointed to the sign outside the building. “It also says there’s an art exhibition going on.”

“...Right.” 

The two men went down the alley and up the flight of stairs. “Pretty sure this is it.”

“Try not to vomit at all the wealth.” Charles said snidely. "I know you've had your fill lately."

“Heh, I’ll do my best.”

They walked into an uncomfortable scene. High class socialites and debutantes looked at the Fauvist paintings of naked men _and_ women. Some seemed to be studies, others were erotically charged. It seemed to be that Mr. Chatenay had no shortage of muses. “Monsieur Morgan, you made it!” The artist called out, pulling Arthur in for a hug. “How are you, ehh?” He slapped either side of his face.

“Tryin’ to keep from murderin’ Frenchmen, I’ll tell you that!” Arthur laughed despite his annoyance.

Charles directed his eyes over to Charles, who was trying to busy himself by looking at a painting. “Is that—” He whispered to Arthur.

“Yeah,” Arthur said quietly. “It sure is.” 

“I take it my advice worked?”

Arthur cleared his throat. “So far, so good.”

Charles C. pulled a face. “You haven’t even—” He did that same crude gesture that he did in the bar. 

Scoffing, Arthur shook his head. 

“When you do get around to it, I expect _twenty_ years from now, I expect a letter of gratitude.”

“I’ll be sure to write you one.” Arthur laughed, his cheeks feeling warm. His heart sank as he watched Charles C. walk over to introduce himself.

“ _Monsieur_ ,” he held out his hands, taking Charles’ in kind. “I have heard so much about you.” 

“You have?” Charles looked back at Arthur, who could only shrug. 

“Ah yes, you are the apple of this cowboy’s eye, no?”

The other spectators paid no mind to this conversation, instead choosing to look at the art. So different than in camp. “Uh, yeah.”

“Oh, the magnificent things this man told me about you. How he _feels_ about you. How much he _loves_ you—"

Arthur swooped in and wrapped a hand around the back of Charles C.’s neck. “Stop talkin’.” He warned.

“Mr. Chatenay!” A woman called out. Arthur loosened his grip on the man’s neck. “Why haven’t you painted any bloomers on this young lady right here?"

“Ah, undergarments, who needs them! They really constrict us from what we’re meant to do, which is to _fuck_!” The woman gasped, moving away from him.

“Wait a minute,” another man looked at a painting. “That’s my wife!”

“And that’s my sister!”

“My brother!”

“My husband!”

“My _mother_!”

“Don’t look at her! Stop looking!”

“Get away!”

The crowd started to form around Charles C., who made a quick getaway. Everyone started fighting everyone else. Charles and Arthur laughed, even as they fought the upper crust of St. Denis. The more things changed...

The people who didn’t fight stormed out of the gallery. “Don’t blame me, the show was free!” The man in the booth said.

“Mr. Châtenay?” Arthur called out, carefully stepping over the unconscious art viewers.

The little French man peeked out from the coat closet. “Is it over?”

“For now.” Arthur held the door open, motioning for him to step out.  
  
“Well, all artists can hope for is a little _controversy_ at their show, yes?”

“If you call controversy pissing off everyone and their mother, then sure.”

“Especially their _mother_.” Charles chimed in. 

Charles C. dusted off his vest and adjusted his sleeves. “Either way, I think it was a _roaring_ success. Do either of you want to take home a painting?”

Arthur and Charles looked at each other. Charles was the first to speak. “We don’t really have any walls to hang it up on—”

Undeterred by this, he went over to the gallery. “Ach, just take one. It’s on me.”

“Uh…” Arthur looked to find the smallest painting. The woman was leaning forward, dressed only in her slip. “I’ll take this one. She’s the most dressed.”

“Ah, a real fireball, that one!” Charles C. laughed lecherously. “I’m glad it’s going to a true American couple!”

Charles couldn’t help but laugh. Arthur nearly dropped the painting. 

“I shall bid adieu to you two. Make sure you have time to get out of here without any of these vermin waking up.” He stepped carefully around the men on the floor.  
  
“More like _you_ need time to get out of here.” Charles corrected.

“Either way.” He bowed slightly to both of them. “Maybe sometime I can draw you two together?”

“No way—” “Hell no.” They both answered at the same time. 

“Ah, suit yourself.” He ran a hand through his hair before stepping out of the gallery. 

“What a strange man.” Charles commented. “And how are you going to put that on Beeve’s back?”

“I s’pose I could put it in storage. Hey, does the bank save paintings?”

“How would _I_ know?"

Arthur shrugged. “I might leave it up to the post office. Pick it up later.” He tucked it under his arm. “Shall we?”

They got out of the building and Charles said, “So you _love_ me—”

“Let’s talk ‘bout this later.” He said quietly. “I’d been meaning to tell ya, even though it might not be the best time.”

“Oh _Arthur_ ,” Charles laughed. “There is no ‘best time’ for anything, and you know that.”

“I s’pose I do.”

They walked for about another block until Charles said, “I do too.”

“ _What_?”

Charles stopped to look at him. They stepped foot into an alleyway. “I love you too, you fool.”

Arthur’s fingers nearly dropped the painting again. “ _I—oh_ .” He placed a quick peck on his lips. “You _fool_.” He echoed.

Charles smiled, eyes looking down at the painting. “You want me to carry that for a while?”

“Sure.” The two men kept walking to where they left their horses.

“You know,” Charles thought aloud, catching the time off the clock. “Dutch isn’t expecting us until this evening.”

“Yeah.” 

“What if we made this time our own?”

“What’re you suggestin’, Mr. Smith?”

Charles motioned to the right of him. “There’s an inn down this way. Maybe they could lend us a room.”

“ _Or_ they could lend you a room while I sneak inside. Y’know how people talk.”

“They do.” A beat. “What do you say?”

Arthur couldn’t contain his smile as he patted him on the shoulder. “I’d say I’m a bad influence on you, Charles.”

He laughed. “I’d say so too.”


End file.
